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alsofoundinpeas · 5 days ago

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Need that senior citizen right NOW ‼️

summer lovin'

pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner/fem!reader genre: smut w.c.: 6.7k a/n: shoutout to summer aka prime dbf season. this could technically be seen in the same universe as either of my other dbf!hotch fics but could also be a standalone, whatever you want <3 as always feedback fuels me ily

summary: After your dad thwarts your plan to have a not-date with Aaron at the drive-in movie theatre, you improvise.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, dbf!hotch, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, fingering, finger sucking, interrupted blowjob so hotch gets blue balls <3, one (1) hint of sir kink at the very end, praise kink, dirty talk, kinda fwb kinda dating hotch just needs to DTR already, no y/n

read below or on ao3 here <3

You’re at least 99% sure that summer was your favorite time of the year.

You loved that you were only a short ten-minute drive to the beach and could spend the whole day in your new bikini out by the water. You loved the cookouts that your dad always threw in your backyard, the smoke of the burgers on the grill and fresh chlorine from the pool swirling in the air. You loved staying out too late with your friends, drunk and attempting to quietly stumble through your front door as if you were a high schooler again.

But your favorite part about summer? Coming home and spending time with your dad’s best friend.

You and Hotch have been having a summer fling every time you visited for the past two years. Though, you wonder if it could still be considered a fling anymore if it lasted for more than one summer and the two of you would meet if he had a case in your state, no matter the season.

This summer was no exception. Your dad had been promoted last month, which meant that he was called into the office at least every day, thus leaving the house empty for your lonesome self.

“It’s fine,” you had said, waving him off. He had been worried that you felt like he wasn’t spending enough time together as you were only really able to see each other once a year due to your busy schedule. “If I’m bored, I’ll just drive over to Aaron’s place to bother him.”

He didn’t know that you already had your keys tucked into your purse and nothing underneath your dress, so he rolled his eyes and laughed, telling you to not to bother him too much.

Aaron’s schedule often didn’t allow time for you to spend as much time with him as you wanted, so it wasn’t entirely your fault that you had to jump at any opportunity that presented itself. It’s not like you were able to drop down to your knees and scoot in between his thighs underneath your kitchen table when he was over for dinner like you often did at his apartment, his expensive belt unbuckled and his large hand pushing down at the crown of your head.

You would almost feel bad at occupying all of Aaron’s free time if he didn’t clearly express that he didn’t mind, often accompanied with a half-smile he would try to hide and tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

Now, it was the first week of August and you were starting to panic.

Your entire summer flew by you, now nothing but a blur of warm days by the pool and Aaron’s head in between your legs. You seriously don’t think you’ve had this many orgasms since you were a teenager and you went to a Spencer’s to buy a vibrator for the first time.

You’ve been trying to ignore that nagging anxiety that’s been slowly forming since the middle of the summer, but now it was a full-fledged nuisance. Now, you were just that desperate enough to spend as much time with Aaron as possible before you had to go back home to your lonely little apartment to work your lonely little job.

You try to ignore the fact that you were even willing to forgo the mind-blowing orgasms that often followed being in his company. Or the fact that you had started to think about him in non-sexual ways, such as wondering whether he had eaten that day or whether he was able to ask Jack about his science fair project that he wasn’t able to help with.

You’re laying out by the pool and scrolling on your phone, skin warm from the afternoon sun and clad in your cutest bikini, when you get the idea. Or, rather, Instagram gives you the idea in the form of multiple typos and an oversaturated picture.

It’s an ad for a local drive-in movie theatre that you didn’t know even existed announcing what they were featuring for the end of summer. Their last movie was allegedly tonight, a late showing of Grease, and claimed they still had several tickets available.

As if on cue, you hear the telltale crunching of gravel of Aaron pulling up into the driveway. A wicked smile splits your face. It was like a sign from God, or gods, or whatever the hell was out there as they served the perfect date night idea to you in the form of a badly photoshopped ad on your phone.

Your dad was still home, working at the kitchen island, but you knew that Aaron had timed it perfectly where only ten minutes after he showed up, your dad was going to get a call asking for him to come into the office. You’re going to wave him off, saying that you were fine with learning how to occupy yourself, and Aaron would claim to head out a couple minutes after him after dropping something off in his office down the hall. Most times, your dad’s car would have just barely disappeared down the street before Aaron’s spinning you around by the hips to bend over that same kitchen island and shucking your denim cutoffs down your legs.

It was the same routine that you’ve had all summer. It was nearly foolproof.

When you step through the doorway and into the kitchen, you act surprised when you spot Aaron already leaning with his hip against the stove, deliciously toned arms crossed over his sturdy chest as he was already deep in conversation with your dad about something or another.

Your dad looks away to type something painstaking slow on his laptop and Aaron takes the opportunity to raise his eyebrow at you, lazy gaze taking in your and your bright pink bikini. You bite back a smirk when his eyes get stuck on your chest, your nipples undoubtedly stiff and poking through the damp fabric at the superior air conditioning of the house.

“Hey you,” you say, feigning nonchalance. You come to stand by your dad and lean forwards on the kitchen island, inadvertently pushing your breasts up. You smile when you notice Aaron’s jaw clenching as he tries not to let his eyes stray lower than your face. “What are you doing here?”

He clears his throat and your smile grows wider when you spot the vein in his neck pulsing. “Just came to drop some files off for your dad.”

Aaron’s always coming over with papers and files that you know nothing about the contents of. You wonder if they must actually be important since he’s been using that same excuse nearly every single day for the past two months.

“Yeah, yeah,” your dad mutters, still focused on the fluorescent blue screen with his reading glasses precariously hanging on the tip of his nose.

You were nearly bouncing on the balls of your feet with excitement; any second now, your dad’s phone was going to ring and he’s going to be swept away to the office. Now was your perfect chance to bring up the movie with him where only a couple of minutes later, he’ll give you an apologetic look and ruffle your hair, telling you next time with a regretful tinge to his voice. He would have no idea that you had plans to drag his best friend with you instead.

“Dad, what are your thoughts on going to this drive-in movie a couple blocks away here in a little bit?” you ask, biting at your bottom lip to prevent breaking out in giggles. “I’ve never been to one.”

Aaron’s shuffling through the files, seemingly lost in thought, but you knew he was watching you out of the corner of his eye, interest piqued. He’s grown familiar with your antics and the way you seemingly always had a plan to appear busy when you knew your dad was going to be out. To not raise suspicion, you had said.

“Never been?” your dad finally raises his head up from that, eyes wide as he glances at you, and then Aaron. “Can you believe that?”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Somehow, I can.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if the movie’s soon, we should probably get ready and head out,” your dad says, completely ignoring you. You elbow him in the side and he elbows you right back.

He slams his laptop closed and groans when he gets off the bar stool, knees popping in the process. When he’s making his way to his bedroom to get ready, you frown and glance repeatedly at the clock. They should’ve called him about ten minutes ago.

“Hey dad,” you call out. “Are you working today?”

He’s in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt when he turns around, confusion written all over his face. “No, sweetie, I thought I told you that I decided to call out today,” he says, chuckling to himself. “Good thing you brought up that drive-in thing because I had nothing planned. Let me change and we can go.”

You may be a bit dramatic but you swear you thought the walls were caving in, anxiety causing your heartbeat to spike in rhythm as you tried to subtly pick your jaw off the floor and be casual. “Oh? You didn’t have to do that, dad.”

He doesn’t even bother looking back at you. “Of course I had to, we’ve barely seen each other all summer! Now come on, let’s get going.”

And then he’s disappearing into his bedroom with the click of a door and you’re stuck with the realization that not only are you going to be spending the next two and a half hours in the back of a car with Aaron, but also with your father sitting right next to you.

You’re still staring at the polished wood of your dad’s bedroom door, the heavy weight of Aaron’s eyes on the back of your head. You could already see the amused twist of his mouth, the slight worried furrow in his forehead that would ultimately give him away.

This wasn’t the first time your plans were thwarted by your dad and your inability to plan accordingly, such as when you had to spend the afternoon by the pool in your bikini and not nude like you had initially wanted, but you still felt a bit lousy.

When you finally face him, you were surprised to find him wearing a fond, yet exasperated expression. It melts his usual hardened appearance, making him appear younger and like the man you’ve been messing around with all summer.

He pushes himself off the kitchen counter and approaches you. Your heart thumps erratically in your sternum, something that’s been occurring a lot recently, but you chalk it up to the way Aaron’s sleeves stretch over his biceps or the way the dark red shade of his shirt makes his stomach appear softer.

He quickly leans into you and your heart skips, impossibly thinking he was actually going to kiss you with your father in the same room.

You’re not sure whether you were disappointed or relieved when he’s kissing the crown of your head, brief enough for you to get a taste of his cologne before it’s immediately ripped away from you.

“Go get ready,” he mutters, voice low and soft so there wasn’t any chance for your father to hear him. “We’ll make it work.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re strapped into the backseat of Aaron’s Range Rover, since he has more trunk room than either of your cars, a pile of blankets and snacks on the seat next to you, and watching out the window at the bright lights of the streetlamps as you pull into the parking lot of the theatre.

With the sun setting over the horizon, painting the sky in a picturesque orange and purple hue, came the cooler summer breeze blowing through your rolled down window. The tempting aroma of buttery popcorn and fried dough filled the car as Aaron drove between the numerous rows of cars to find the perfect spot.

You felt on edge. You’ve been nearly silent for the entire duration of the ten-minute drive as they continued to talk about work, as if the entire point of this outing was to definitively not talk about work, yet you didn’t mind.

You found Aaron entirely too distracting today. Every time your father was preoccupied, he was meeting your eyes through the rearview mirror, silently raising an eyebrow whenever you would smile innocently at him.

He knew you were up to something—he was able to read you as soon as you bounded downstairs in that strappy plain white sundress, the lace hem barely brushing your thighs, and smelling like his favorite perfume. You had smiled him just as innocently then too, ignoring the rush of heat that flooded your veins when his eyes darkened and his jaw tightened.

The spot he had pulled the car into was towards the back, close enough where you got a good view of the screen, but secluded enough where you wouldn’t be bothered by the loud concession stand or the group of teenagers laughing several cars over.

You immediately bounced out of the car as soon as it was set in park, arms filled with the numerous blankets you found laying around the house to set up in the backseat. You let Aaron push the backseats down and watch with a grin as he steps away. As smart as they were, neither your dad or Aaron would have the forethought to set the ugly blankets on the bottom and the fluffy and more comfortable blankets on top.

You clamber up into the trunk, sitting right in the middle with your legs splayed out and your sandaled feet hanging over the edge. Although you were secretly glad that Aaron convinced the two of you to take his car for the extra wiggle room, you weren’t going to give him that satisfaction.

Aaron climbs in next to you, groaning at the way his knees pop and the way his back isn’t fully supported as much as he would like. Even with how roomy the car’s trunk was, his jean-clad thigh still brushes against your bare one where the hem of your dress has ridden up.

You expect your dad to follow, with similar old man groaning and bones popping, probably even knocking against your shoulder with his hip, yet an exhilarated thrill runs through you when he says, “I’m going to get some popcorn, did you guys want anything?”

You clear your throat and make yourself appear busy by grabbing a spare throw blanket to throw over your bare legs, ducking your head to hide the devilish smile that threatens to form. “Nope, I brought all the salty and sugary snacks I could ever need.”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Aaron says, polite as ever, as if he couldn’t sense your desire to jump his bones at that very second.

Your father shrugs before leaving you two, just as the lights in the parking lot cut off and the only way you were even able to see your hand in front of you was from the giant screen and the glow of the bustling concession stands behind you.

You’re tempted to scold him, remind him what his doctor had said about cutting back on butter, but you honestly couldn’t pass up this opportunity to spend a couple minutes alone with Aaron. It didn’t help your case when you saw how long the concession line was, nearly wrapping around the entire carnival-esque building, so you knew you had more than enough time.

You really were initially planning on actually watching the movie, maybe grabbing his hand to hold underneath a blanket, but he just looked so good in a casual setting and not wearing those unfairly tight suits he often wore whenever he would pick you up outside the house, smelling like dried ink and lukewarm coffee.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Hotch scoots down a bit in his seat, actually relaxing for once, as the movie starts. You wince at the way the music blares, a bit louder than you were comfortable with, and shuffle a bit closer to the furnace that is Aaron, pressing the length of your body against his.

He stiffens. His breath catches when you throw your blanket over his legs, now concealing both of your laps, and your chest brushes against his arm. He can probably tell by now that you decided to forgo a bra.

“Just making sure I don’t hog the blanket,” you say with a smile when he glances at you.

He seems to believe you, not expecting you to pull any funny business when you were surrounded by so many people, as well as your father in the near vicinity.

Which is absolutely silly on his part, considering how often the two of you had hooked up in his car on the side of the road.

You take a deep breath, the smell of butter and the faintest whiff of Aaron’s cologne filling your lungs, before you pull the corner of the throw blanket over your shoulders and place your right hand onto the meat of Aaron’s thigh.

You have to stifle a giggle when he nearly jumps out of the car, head nearly bumping against the roof. You can sense the stern words threatening to come out when he turns to you, something about how you’re in public and how now wasn’t the time on the very tip of his tongue.

Yet you keep your eyes trained on the screen, pretending to be completely enraptured as the opening credits end and transitions to the front of the high school and definitely not being distracted at how perfectly firm his thigh was even through the thick fabric of his jeans.

He doesn’t say anything, maybe assuming that you were just feeling a bit extra touchy-feely like you do when you haven’t seen each other in a couple of days. He would call you needy, but you considered yourself grateful with what you got.

He decidedly does not say anything and turns back to face the screen.

Your heart is racing, blood in your ears nearly drowning out the noises of the people in the parking lot annoyingly reciting each line of the movie one after the other. You shift in your seat, thighs brushing against each other underneath your dress, and you try not to think about why this whole scenario was actually getting you riled up.

You wait a couple more minutes, enough to where you felt Aaron’s thigh slowly relax underneath your palm, before you begin to slowly trail it upwards.

The rough fabric of his jeans against your hand was strangely soothing, warm from the heat of his skin seeping through. The pads of your fingers slide along the inner seam and you allow a manicured nail to scratch against it before gently squeezing your hand around his entire thigh.

You keep your eyes fixed straight ahead; however you’re no longer taking in the movie as you’re too aware of the way Aaron’s breath deepens or the way he imperceptible spreads his thighs apart underneath the blanket.

When your hand reaches his crotch and you feel the very sizable bulge of his half-hard cock straining against his jeans, heat crackles down your spine, adamantly pooling in between your legs. You felt a strange surge of power and experimentally squeeze your hand around the length of him, coaxing a groan that Aaron tries to bite back. Your mouth waters.

He leans down until his lips were barely brushing against the shell of your ear, the low timbre of his velvet voice causing another flare of desire to burst in your chest. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you say, giving him one final squeeze, your thumb briefly brushing against the very tip of his cock. You lay your palm flat against the bulge and wonder if precum has stared leaking through his boxers yet.

“Nothing?” And then it’s his turn to snake his arm underneath the protective guise of the blanket, over your chest, and away from prying eyes to place his own hand on your bare thigh.

Your heart rate kicks up, face suddenly feeling heated in a way you couldn’t blame the summer heat for. Aaron’s hands have always been ridiculously large, with thick fingers and rough skin mottled with endearing age spots. They were one of your favorite things about him, especially when he put them to good use.

Like he is now.

He’s squeezing the flesh of your thigh, causing you to grip the fabric of his jeans at the inseam, breath growing heavier. He doesn’t bother teasing, completely aware of the time restraint and the fact that you were surrounded by a third of the town, and when his fingertips brush against your pussy, he expects to find your favorite pair of light blue lace panties.

When he brushes against your skin instead, he pauses. You inadvertently hold your breath, not so subtly spreading your thighs apart underneath the blanket. Your left knee pokes out from the edge.

“It doesn’t look like nothing since you’re not wearing anything underneath that dress of yours.” And then he’s yanking your thighs further apart and dragging his fingertips along the seam of your pussy. He avoids your throbbing clit and takes his time to barely dip into your dripping entrance before he’s spreading your wetness in between your folds.

You have to bite back a gasp, your grip tightening where you still have a handful of denim. You resist the urge to arch your back into his touch, instead scooting down in your seat so Aaron would be able to effortlessly thrust one of those deliciously thick fingers inside of you. Your sandal dangles precariously off your foot as it hangs over the edge of the trunk.

“It’s hot out…” Your voice sounds weak even to you, your breaths coming out ragged as you attempt to cant your hips up in an effort to get Aaron to touch you where you’re nearly throbbing for him.

He hums before he’s sliding his middle finger inside of you, causing your entire body to jolt and your jaw to fall open. You bring your legs up, planting your feet onto the truck and allowing the blanket still on your lap to shield your… activities from anyone if they decided to stroll by. You squeeze your eyes shut and let your head loll onto Aaron’s sturdy shoulder.

If anyone decided to look over at the two of you, they would assume that you were a couple, albeit an odd one, casually cozying up during a date night at the drive-in movies. There were plenty of couples in the parking lot, the singing and lines being repeated back quieting down as the crowd became enthralled with a movie they’ve seen a hundred of times.

The next song in the movie plays, effectively drowning out the filthy sounds of your pussy as Aaron effortlessly slides another finger inside of you, still narrowly avoiding your clit. You let out a low moan under your breath and Aaron has to shush you.

“You have to be quiet, sweetheart,” he mutters, as if it was the easiest thing in the world and not like you were living out your horniest fantasies with a man old enough to be your father.

That thought, dirty and sinful, causes you to clench around his fingers and for you to bury your face in Aaron’s neck to quiet the wet gasps that threaten to come out of you.

You think Aaron chuckles at your reaction but you can’t even bother to be mad because his pace increases, and the indecent sound of you somehow getting wetter, his palm slapping against your clit and just barely giving you enough stimulation has your thighs trembling.

You thank every God that ever existed that Aaron was left-handed as he steadily thrusts his fingers in and out of you, curling his fingers just so to hit that spot that makes you nearly cry out, but it’s not enough.

You have to muffle your noises against the skin of Aaron’s throat, the strong clean smell of his cologne mixing in with sweat had your mind spinning, stoking at the arousal that was building faster and stronger with each second that passed.

“Aaron…” you whimper, abandoning where you were pathetically attempting to rub his cock through his jeans to take a hold of forearm.

He doesn’t stop. In fact, your grip on him seems to make him go faster, deeper. He tilts his head to press his lips to your forehead and then quietly asks “Are you going to come for me, honey? In front of all these people?”

You whine, shaking your head and burying your face further into him, words catching in your throat and desperately hoping he would know exactly what you needed.

He makes a faux sympathetic noise. “Your pussy needs a little bit more, doesn’t she?”

To your absolute horror, he slowly takes his fingers out of your pussy and you make a pitiful noise, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes at the utter confusion and annoyance swirling in your chest as you lift your head up from his shoulder.

“Wha—”

He brings his free hand up to your face, glowing with an array of flashing colors from the screen. You’re barely able to discern the dark glint in his eyes, pupils wide and his lips parted as he breathes heavily. “Suck.”

Before you could even think, realize that you’re only a couple feet away from strangers and that any of the people walking back from the concession stand could pass by you, one of them possibly even being your own fucking father, you’re meeting his gaze and obediently parting your lips to let him slide two fingers into your mouth.

You can feel the corners of your lips stretch, accommodating the girth of his fingers, his skin tasting clean with a faint hint of your lavender soap he used before you left and his rough callouses brushing against your tongue. You make sure to swirl your tongue over his fingers sloppily despite knowing you wouldn’t need it, have never needed it, because Aaron was able to have you dripping down your thighs with just one word.

You hollow your cheeks, peering up at him from underneath your eyelashes, and your clit throbs painfully when he wordlessly slides his fingers deeper into your mouth.

When he pulls his hand away, a trail of your saliva follows, connecting your spit-slick mouth to him. The vulgar sight causes your face to heat up.

“Good girl.”

The praise nearly lights you from the inside out, your thighs instinctively parting wider as his wet hand dips underneath the blanket to caress your folds again.

You’re completely drenched, your inner thighs sticky with your arousal, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you were leaving a wet spot on the blankets underneath you.

You pay that no mind, completely unable to, as Aaron easily slides the two fingers that was just in your mouth into your aching pussy with a wet noise. He immediately starts fucking into you, his thumb circling your throbbing clit at a maddeningly steady pace, now focused on pushing you over the edge as soon as possible.

A strangled moan erupts from you, caught off guard at the onslaught of pleasure running hot through your body, and Aaron is immediately tilting down to capture your lips in a kiss.

You’re distantly aware that he hasn’t kissed you at all today, not even while he’s been fingering you in public underneath a blanket, and the revelation nearly causes a rise in unseated annoyance to spark in your chest if it weren’t for the fact that you felt your muscles tensing and your lower belly coiling with your impending orgasm.

His mouth is hungry against yours, tongue sliding into yours as he easily swallows the steady stream of your moans as he fingers you faster, rubs your clit a bit rougher.

When you pull away, chest feeling tight at the lack of oxygen, you manage to let out a high-pitched whine against his lips that you hope understands as your hips roll up to meet his thrusts, not even caring if the lewd wet noises of your pussy was audible over the movie.

“You better come before your dad gets back.”

The low tone of his voice simmers through you as he’s curling his fingers, nearly grinding them into you, and you’re biting your bottom lip to muffle your moan. Your pussy clenches around him, hips stuttering into his thrusts as you come so hard you swear your vision blurs around the edges.

He continues to fuck into you, letting you ride it out, and you have to push his wrist away while your ears were still ringing as your oversensitive clit begins to throb. You felt sluggish and like you’re one second away from melting through the floor of the car, your entire body limp and sated.

You barely wince when he slides his fingers out of you and discreetly wipes your leftover slick onto the blanket you both were sitting on. You lean your head back onto the headrest, tilting slightly away from the warmth of Aaron’s body as you desperately hoped a cool breeze would pick up and magically blow into the trunk of the car and onto your heated face.

Aaron reaches over your body for the forgotten bag of food, rummaging for the bag of salted pretzels he knows you packed because he knows you’re seconds away from begging for a snack. However, him straightening up and twisting his body into yours reminds you of the very sizeable shape of his hard cock visible through the crotch of his jeans.

Embarrassment floods through you as you remember that, despite your initial plan to pay attention to Aaron and tease him, it had totally backfired and you were the one who still got off. Despite him always assuring you not to worry about him, it just didn’t feel right, and plus, you wanted to.

Just like you expected, when you grab the bag of pretzels to toss aside to place your palm on his crotch where he’s still hard, he puts his hand over yours to stop you. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

You roll your eyes and knock his hand aside. “I want to.”

And then you tuck your legs primly underneath yourself and duck underneath the blanket, situating yourself until you were essentially kneeling over him and your face was merely inches away from the bulge in his jeans.

Aaron makes a strangled noise that you can barely hear over the sound of the movie still playing, but he doesn’t stop you as you’re expertly popping the button of his jeans open and dragging the zipper down. With some shuffling and maneuvering, his jeans and boxers are bunched around his thick thighs and his cock is out, curving against his stomach and flushed an angry red.

The heat of him is palpable, his heady musk stronger now thanks to the blanket over his lap, and you lick your lips, your cunt pulsing from arousal again. When you wrap your hand around him, his cock twitches and you can see Aaron’s hand fisting the edge of the blanket.

You could tell he was on edge, probably surprisingly closer than to he expected from just fingering you until you bit your lip raw and surrounded by a crowd of people. You smile wickedly at the thought that he was getting off to this just as much as you before you’re tilting your chin up and parting your lips over the head of his leaking cock.

You hear a muffled noise, most likely Aaron refraining from groaning out loud, as you open your mouth further to accommodate the girth of him as he slides deeper into you. You squeeze your hand around the base of him as you lower and lower until the head of his cock brushes against the back of your throat, your lips meeting your fist.

Aaron curses quietly, his breathing turning ragged as he tries to keep his hips still so he doesn’t make you gag, letting you take your time despite his own judgements.

You know he was expecting your usual teasing—kitten licks at the head to savor his precum or the flat of your tongue tracing the vein along the underside of his cock. But it must have been over 15 minutes already and, as much as you want to leisurely lick and suck him until you were dripping wet again and your jaw got sore, you’re running out of time.

You unfurl your fist around the base of his cock to place on the bare skin of his thigh and begin to bob your head, rivulets of your drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth and coating him.

He seems to understand because he’s sneaking a hand underneath the blanket to cradle the back of your head, keeping you steady, before he’s lifting his hips up to start fucking into your mouth.

Something simmers at the base of your skull, your eyes fluttering shut, as you let him take control in that seamless way he always does. Submitting to him was always exhilarating, making you feel drunk and like you were a second away from floating out of your body with just one look, one large hand wrapped around your throat.

It happens now as you concentrate on making sure you didn’t gag, trying to open your jaw further so he could continue using your mouth whichever way he wants. The sounds of the movie and the audience singing along filters through your brain and out your ears, the only thing you’re aware of being your harsh breaths and the filthy crude noises of his thick cock hitting the back of your throat.

Aaron grunts, barely audible over the movie, and his hips begin to stutter, his fist clenching and unclenching where he still has a grip on the back of your neck. You swallow around him as best as you could, mentally preparing yourself for the first spurt of his come hitting the back of your throat and wondering if you could get away from sitting on his lap and angling his cock inside of your aching pussy for a little bit.

You don’t hear the sound of the car door opening until Aaron’s grip on the back of your neck tightens, essentially stilling you with your lips still wrapped around his cock.

“Shit, can you believe I got to the front of the line and I forgot my wallet?”

Aaron hums in response, though it sounds strained to you. His muscled thighs are tense, as if anticipating this was the moment that your father would discover his daughter was sleeping around with his best friend by his cock in your mouth.

Your ears burn as you slowly lift yourself off of him, making sure you swallow to refrain from any lewd noises from your mouth. You and Aaron seem to have the same idea as you stay hunched over his lap, hiding out of your dad’s eyeline, the thick blanket covering you.

There are sounds of him rummaging around the seats, even checking the middle console, and then he’s making a triumphant noise and closing the console shut. You’re not exactly sure why his wallet was in the console of Aaron’s car, but there were evidently more important matters as you watched his cock, right in front of your face, soften with each passing second.

“Where’d that girl get to now?”

Aaron clears his throat and you have to bite your lip to hide your smile when his cock twitches. “She had to go to the restroom.”

A sigh. “Well, I better go back and get in line. You sure you don’t want anything, Hotch?”

There’s a tinge of frustration when he speaks again “I’m good, thanks.”

You could almost imagine the noncommittal shrug your dad gives before you hear the slam of the car door being shut and his whistling along to the song on the screen that gradually fades away.

Aaron’s hand finally leaves your neck, silently telling you that the coast was clear. You’re not sure if you’re wanting it back or not, but one glance at his cock, nearly completely soft, has you holding back a sigh.

When you finally sit up, you’re sure you look like a mess. The neckline of your dress was probably pulled down a little too low still, your hair frizzy and tangled from his hands, and your lips swollen and puffy.

However, when Aaron glances at you with a soft expression, the start of a smile tugging at his lips and his thumb coming to swipe at the corner of your mouth, you felt like the prettiest woman in the city.

“I guess we’re done for tonight, huh?” you ask, attempting to pass it off as a joke but your voice sounds weak even to you.

“I’m okay with that,” he says, voice gentle and not like he was trying to hold back his moans merely two minutes ago. He tucks himself back into his jeans and you have to lift the edge of the blanket up to make sure that he had gone fully soft. When he’s done, he studies you, an unreadable glint in his eyes that causes your heart to flip in your chest.

Before you could say something idiotic, something that would disrupt the easygoing nature of your undefined relationship, he raises his arm to rest on the back of the seat. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the slight flex of his bicep and the shine of his fancy watch against his wrist, shamelessly admiring the way it glints underneath the light.

When you tear your gaze away from the sudden filthy thoughts revolving that specific watch, he’s raising an eyebrow at you, and then, “Come here.”

A giddy smile erupts on your face before you could help it. You try to suppress a squeal as you shuffle closer into Aaron’s embrace, letting the warmth of him bleed through his shirt as you press your cheek into his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his middle to intertwine your fingers with your arm that you have curled around his back.

He’s so soft, with his belly rising and falling with each breath and the way he brings his arm down from the back of the seat to rest around your shoulders, pulling you further into him. You’re not sure if the sense of calmness that overcomes you was from the comforting scent of his cologne or the orgasm his fingers just brought you to.

A girly type of excitement fills your chest at the fact that you were cuddling him so publicly, such a rare event that has only happened when he’s come to visit you when out on a case. You know he can see your smile out of the corner of his eye, the way you try to wiggle further into him as if you’re trying to crawl into his skin, but he stays silent.

The two of you sit in silence and, surprisingly, watch the movie, with you singing along and Aaron shaking his head at you. You know he’s mouthing along to the lyrics, you just can’t quite prove it.

You hear the distinct off-tune whistling from your dad and scramble to put a respectable distance between you and Aaron.

His hand shoots out to grab at your wrist and you ignore the way arousal licks up your spine at the way his fingers easily dwarf yours and how unbearably attractive he is when he leans in to whisper into your ear.

“Maybe you can come over tonight after the movie to finish what you started.”

You bite back a smile, noticing how it wasn’t exactly a question, but rather a concise demand. You also knew that Aaron can be impatient, especially after he didn’t get a chance to finish in your mouth like he wanted to, and that you were most definitely going to pay for it later.

“Yes, sir.”

taglist <3: @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon @khxna @ssa-writerminds

#kisreadingagain

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alsofoundinpeas · 5 days ago

Text

And if I said this had me foaming at the mouth??

𝗗𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗗𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀, 𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗭𝗼𝗻𝗲- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- PostPrison!Spencer x Gideon!Reader

WC- 5k

Summary- Jason Gideon's daughter reluctantly accepts a new position at the BAU. The night before her first day, she has a one night stand in order to quell her nerves. When that one night stand turns out to be her coworker and her father's old protégé, she'll have more to fight than just killers.

Contains- canon typical violence, reader coming head-to-head with an unsub, reader is a lil reckless and very stubborn, non-explicit sex scene (18+ MDNI regardless), Spencer has emotional issues from prison, actually proofread this time holla

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto !! I honestly don't love this fic so bon appetite I hope u guys do

Glasses clink together, celebratory whoops ringing through the crowded bar. Your crisp, refreshing vodka cran tickles your throat as a large gulp slides down. You’re desperate to quell the anxiety bubbling up in you, though you’re supposed to be celebrating.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. Your fingers squeeze around your glass, your heart pounding. You’re desperate to appear happy and grateful, and your friends truly are great to you, celebrating you in such a way.

It’s hard though, knowing the clock just keeps ticking. The seconds fleeting, one by one, until your arrival at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Your father founded it. You swore you’d never follow in his footsteps, scorned from the way it tore your family apart.

Yet, when you received a call from unit chief Emily Prentiss, you’d been hard pressed to say no. Something screamed deep inside you, all the parts given to you by your father, at the case details Agent Prentiss provided.

A serial killer targeting women, within 5 mile radii of historical landmarks all throughout D.C. She said she’d seen your work at the D.C. History Center, your ability to analyze and curate historical artifacts standing out. If you like it, then you have a permanent spot on the team. It’s more money, you told yourself. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel there’s a part of you, deep down, that needed to say yes.

The loud shrieks of laughter emanating from your table snap you back to reality. You scan the bar, patrons packed in like sardines. The low light mixes with the smoke filtering the air. Your eyes narrow into slits as they land on something quite breathtaking.

It’s a man. He seems older, a professional, with the tailored way his suit coat fits. That doesn’t stop his brown curls from flopping in front of his big eyes. His long fingers graze the rim of a whiskey glass, taking a long sip. Your friend follows your gaze, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline at what she finds.

“Oh!” she gasps, impressed by what she sees. “Good find! You gonna go talk to him?”

You shift your head from side to side, rattling the question around in your brain. You’re typically not bold enough to approach a man in a setting like this, let alone the Adonis sitting across the bar from you now. Tonight, though, you might be just tipsy enough, just desperate enough to escape the anxiety of tomorrow, that you may just go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

You slide out of the booth, fingers delicately gripping the rim your glass as you make your way across the bar. You slink onto the bar stool next to him, refusing to make eye contact, though you feel his gaze on you. You adjust your mini dress, pulling the sparkly gold fabric down as far as it’d go, your upper thigh tantalizingly on display. His head drops down to where your hand lay, and he licks his lips. Check and mate.

“Long night?” You ask, crossing your leg over your knee. You sip your drink, still refusing to look at him.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving your frame.

Your eyes meet his, unable to hold off any longer. God. He’s even more gorgeous than you thought. You study him up close now, your brow furrowing. There’s something about him- his round eyes, the slant of his nose- that feels hauntingly familiar. Like a friend from a past life, returning to you once more. You can’t place your finger on it, though, and the alcohol disorienting you just enough to brush it off. For now.

“How could you tell?” He asks, and it dawns on you that you’d never responded. You poise yourself, sitting up straighter to shake off the mishap.

“Had a hunch,” you reply over the rim of your glass. You let your lips close around it and take a sip. His eyes follow the movement. A shiver runs down your spine.

��You seem like a very smart woman,” he says, his voice soft yet firm. You want to bathe in it.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” you reply, your eyes narrowing as you size him up further. You introduce yourself, reveling in the way his eyes light up at your name.

“Spencer,” he responds, that pesky deja vu creeping back in at the name.

It falls silent between you then, but it’s not uncomfortable. On the contrary, actually. Your eyes never leave each other, having a silent conversation all on their own. His are dark with desire and want, they hang low slightly, due to the alcohol, most likely. They’re otherworldly gorgeous, big and brown like melted pools of chocolate. You could swim in him all night.

There’s something else there entirely, though. Hesitation, confusion maybe. The smallest tint of discomfort lasers through the heat, like he’s out of his comfort zone. A smirk crawls on your lips. What are the odds that tonight, of all nights, was the one in which you both decided to take a chance?

It only takes one more drink and some small talk until you’re up against your own front door. He’s kissing you within an inch of your life, his large hands completely captivating your face. His lips slot over yours, making your brain fuzzy. He kisses like a madman, all encompassing, borderline feral.

There’s a hunger in his tongue that you haven’t tasted in far too long. It’s addictive, his smoky scent, his soft pants against your mouth. Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sensations. Your nails grip the root of his curls as his lips move to your neck, softly sucking and nibbling. A whimper escapes your lips, your eyes squeezing shut as you scramble for the doorknob. You rattle against the lock before fumbling for your keys.

You stumble in shortly after, tripping over your gold shoes. Spencer catches you, a large hand splaying over the small of your back. He tugs you closer with it, your chest pressing against his. You walk him down the hall before he scoops you up, taking you the rest of the way to your bedroom.

“Spencer,” you muffle against his neck, overwhelmed by your desire for him.

“I know, sweetheart. I know. Give me just one minute and I’m going to make you feel so good,” he whispers against your temple. You nod feverishly, like if you’d stopped he’d disappear.

He lays you down, propping your feet to rest flat on the bed, spreading your knees apart with those large hands. He freezes, his breath hitching at the sight of you under your dress. You smirk, the lace thong you’d worn doing its exact job. His Adam’s apple bobs as you trace a fingernail up his forearm.

“What is it, Spencer?” You question his hesitance, the way he’s stuck in front of you now, dazed. His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. It makes you feel divine, the goddess of the universe on display for him.

“You gonna leave me hanging?” you pout, reveling in the way his eyes darken. He kisses you with the fervor to prove he could never do such a thing. You let go. The feeling of his hands are intoxicating, like a rich wine.

They creep up your sides, your dress hitching higher and higher with the movement. You shift under his touch, your body writhing as heat pools in your lower belly.

The second he grazes your bare skin, he freezes. Your eyes shoot open to find his, wide and desperate and so, so gorgeous. It shifts something inside of you, your heart clutching so severely that it scares you.

“Spencer,” you whisper against his lips. He shudders.

“I’m going to make you feel so good.” He kisses you again.

You blink slowly, the soft light of the sunrise filtering through your parted curtains. There’s a slight thump in your head, but thankfully nothing too bad. You massage your temples as you turn. Your eyes shoot open as you hit a body next to you, still sound asleep.

Memories of last night come rushing back- meeting Spencer, taking him home, the phenomenal night you had, and now this. This, the first day of your new job. Your heart drops. You scramble on the bed in a panicked attempt to find your phone. You whip around to see it sitting on your nightstand, thanking any and every higher power that might be.

You let out a sigh of relief when you see you still have some time to get yourself ready. You ignore the 47 text messages from your group chat last night. You’ll tell them you’re alive later.

You only have an hour, not what you’d ideally wanted for your first day of a brand new job, but it’s better than nothing. It still doesn’t solve your problem of the man in your bed, however.

Your hands push the dead weight, rustling him awake. He rubs his eyes, a raspy, “what?” escaping his lips. For a brief moment, you’re sad that you don’t have enough time to appreciate the sight, the sound of his morning voice. You shake it off quickly, though. You push him again, urging him out of your bed.

“Babe, it’s 5:30 a.m.,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. You’re both too tired to address the pet name. At least that’s what you’re telling yourselves.

“Oh, shit. I’m gonna be late for work,” he scrambles off the bed. You take a moment to admire his naked frame in the sunlight as he gathers his clothing.

“Me too,” you say, lunging off the bed yourself. “It’s my first day on a new job, I’m running more behind than I’d like to be right now.” You’re running around your room like a chicken with her head cut off, grabbing your towels and rushing to the ensuite bathroom.

You can’t help but give him one last peck on the lips. This, incidentally, led to two, three, four more. Lastly, one that lingers longer than it should. One long enough for him to graze his hand along your bare arm. You shiver. Your thin bedsheet is the only fabric separating your bare body to his fully clothed one.

You pull away, taking a step back. You release a deep breath as you take him in once more before you leave.

“Feel free to make some coffee on your way out! Cups are in the cupboard above the coffee pot! Thanks for last night!” You call, before slamming the bathroom door on him, running the shower.

Miraculously, you managed to make it at an appropriate time. You park in the FBI car park at 6:45 on the dot. You lean back in your seat, taking a deep breath and a sip of coffee. Finally, you reapply your lip gloss before you turn off your car.

Your heels echo through the hallway leading towards the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Your heart is pounding in your ears. You’d always told yourself you would never follow in the steps of your father. And yet, here you are. Each step you take feels as if you’re walking in a giant’s footsteps. You pray you’ll make him proud.

The FBI seal on the door looms over you, unable to keep its claws out of the Gideon lineage. You’re frozen there, stuck staring at it, unable to enter. That is, until you hear your name from behind you. The voice is familiar, too familiar. Your stomach drops.

You whip your head around, coming face to face with-

“Spencer,” you breathe, the air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him.

His hair is slightly damp, falling in front of his eye. There’s static in your ears, a faint ringing torturing you. Panic swells in your stomach, bubbling, boiling. And then it hits you.

Spencer. Spencer Reid. Dr. Spencer Reid.

“You worked with my dad,” you whispered. It’s all you can manage. Your voice still cracks.

“Your dad?” His brow furrows. He studies your face. His eyes scan up and down, desperation taking over. You can basically hear them asking, begging, “Who are you?”You’re still frozen, unable to speak.

Then, it hits him. You know, because he’s found the exact parts of you that resemble your father, his mentor. Your dark eyes, the slant in your nose, the curve of your mouth. The very mouth that was on his just hours ago.

“Oh, God,” he gasps. You turn, walking into the office. All you hear is static as you move, your heart pounding in your ears as you fake a smile through your introductions.

You move throughout your day as easily as you can. The rest of the team is incredibly kind, welcoming. The work starts almost immediately, which you’re thankful for. Like father, like daughter, you suppose. Yet, you can’t escape Spencer, looming over you like an inescapable shadow.

He hasn’t spoken to you since your interaction outside the door, but you feel his eyes on you the whole day. When you speak to the team, when you analyze a document, he’s there. Watching. You feel his eyes creep up your spine, their penetrative gaze lodging deep in your chest. Your heart squeezes each time he walks past you without recognition. The cold shoulder lasts through the rest of the day.

You’re conflicted, your heart at war with your mind. The Spencer you met in the bar last night is nothing like the image you’d created of him in your head years prior. He’s kind, funny, interesting, not because of, but in spite of his accolades and achievements. He’s someone you could fall for. At least, you thought so before seeing him today.

You were young when your dad took Spencer under his wing. You’d never met him, then, just seen a few pictures and heard endless stories. You always felt in his shadow, though. The way your father’s eyes lit up when he spoke about him, the excitement lacing his tone, it was all reserved solely for Spencer Reid.

You’d cry yourself to sleep some nights, desperate to do something, anything as worthwhile in the eyes of your father. You never did. He loved you, of course, and he was proud of you. Yet, nothing ever measured up to his pride and love for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, for Spencer.

As the weeks went by, Spencer couldn’t help but find himself pulling further and further away from her. It’s an anchor on his heart, weighing it down more and more each day. Everything inside him, his soul, his heart, screams to be near her, to hold her, to have her every night the way he did that first one. His mind, though, is an entirely different story.

His mind pumps the brakes, waging a civil war inside him that he won’t be able to win. He’s terrified. Terrified of being left the same way her father did, though he knows in his heart he can’t blame her for his faults. His mind once again holds him back, though. It’s funny that what’s supposed to be his greatest strength can also be his biggest enemy. He reconciled with that a lot when he was behind bars, yet another reason he’s apprehensive of opening up to her. So, he stays away.

Now, Spencer buzzes through the bullpen, coffee in hand as the team rushes to the conference room. He’s stuck behind her, of course. The floral scent of her perfume infiltrates him, threatening a shutdown of his central nervous system. His heart constricts as he watches her, her snug blouse cinching her waist, the tight pencil skirt it’s tucked into rendering him nearly brainless. He sips his coffee, eyes diverting.

He hasn’t spoken to her much in the month she’s been here, though not from a lack of desire. Quite the opposite, actually. His heart is fighting something. Something deep inside him from before he went to prison, before Gideon even left the bureau. Her relation to his former mentor has shifted his world on a different axis, like life is moving in reverse.

With his luck, the only seat left is the one directly across from her, the shine of her lip gloss inescapable. He tries his best to focus as Penelope debriefs them on a triple homicide in Texas, though something peculiar piques his interest. He sees it through the window, someone delivering an envelope on her desk. It’s a black envelope, not anything that would be used for official government business. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. He stands. The entire team looks at him.

“I need to go check on something,” he murmurs, but before he leaves, he taps her lightly on the shoulder. “You need to come with me,” he says lowly, so only she can hear.

She stands, hesitantly, offering the team a sheepish, apologetic smile. He suppresses a soft chuckle at that. She’s a Gideon, for Christ’s sake. She could show up late for a year straight and they’d thank her just for showing up. He pushes that thought away as he leads her to her desk.

“There was something that was dropped off on your desk just now,” he murmurs into her ear. “It was weird, I have a hunch. I just think you need to look at it before it’s too late.”

“Too late? Spencer-” she stops, her eyes going wide once she sees the envelope. “Oh, God,” she gasps, her fingers covering her mouth.

“What? What is it?” Spencer asks, his pulse speeding up.

“My father received letters in these exact same envelopes in the months before he died,” she looks at him, eyes wild and glossy, laced with deep seated fear.

Meet me at the park at 2:30 p.m. You know which one. Don’t be late.

Spencer races back to the conference room, the letter gripped tightly in his fingers. He lays it out on the table for the team, their brows quirking.

“This was left on her desk. She said her dad received ones just like it in the months before his murder.” It’s all he needs to say before the team scrambles out of the conference room. Penelope’s already on the phone with the case director, forwarding them a new unit for their case. Rossi, Emily, and J.J. are scanning for a return address,

Spencer exits the conference room to see her holstering her gun, fitting her badge in her back pocket.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks her, a tentative hand out in front of him.

“What do you think I’m doing?” she snaps, and he flinches at her tone.

Regret flashes in her eyes, only for a brief moment.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going to that park,” he insists with a shake of his head.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was someone you were interested in at all. What’s it to you that I’m fighting for myself when I couldn’t for my father?” Her voice shakes on the last word, his heart cracking at the sound.

“I know I’ve been…distant,” he mutters, his voice low, “but you need to think about the implications of what you’re doing.”

“Distant? That’s what you want to call it?” She scoffs, moving to follow the rest of the team. “I’ve thought about the implications of these letters since the day my father was killed. You may have been his golden boy, but I’m his blood.” She sneers in his face, before leaving with the team.

His heart plummets, dropping into his stomach like a brick in the ocean. He plows ten fingers through his hair before bringing the letter to Penelope’s office. They have some analyzing to do.

The car ride is silent as you drive. You knew what park they were referring to immediately. It’s the one your father took you to when you were a baby. You stare out the window, mind and body numb to the reality of what’s happening.

“Hey Emily,” your voice is low, tentative. “Did my dad ever talk about me?” You inhale shakily, not sure if you want the answer. You couldn’t help asking, regardless.

“Oh, yeah he did,” she has a soft smile on her face, and it melts something frozen inside you.

You let out an exhale of relief. “Really?” You ask, disbelieving.

“Really. He wasn’t a typical parent, not one to show off accolades or achievements, though we know you had tons of those,” she states, and you smile softly. “What he did show us were glimpses into his life with you.”

You furrow your brow at this, unsure of her point. She looks at you, then smiles, turning her attention back to the road.

“He’d bring you up in random conversation, when we’d work on paperwork, when he was interviewing families…‘Oh, my daughter loves that show,’ or, ‘my daughter loves the color pink.’ Any chance he had, he’d mention it. At a certain point, I don’t think he even realized he was doing it. It just happened.”

You didn’t even realize your eyes were glossing over until a lone tear rolls down your cheek. You swipe it away with your fingers, clearing your throat and looking down at your lap.

“Thank you,” you croak. Emily nods.

It doesn’t take long until you reach the park, each member of the team splitting up in various directions. You’re with Emily, on strict orders to stay near any member of the team. You feel something, though. Something deep down that’s not right, that the team is headed in the wrong direction.

You entered the park at the south entrance, the opposite side from where your father would take you. You scan the premises, your breath catching. It’s mainly families, some couples enjoying a walk or a picnic. It’s peaceful. Guilt boils in the pit of your stomach at the thought of disturbing these people. The job is the job, as your father would always say.

It takes a split second for you to make a decision the entire team will have your head for. You break off from the group, sneaking off to a backwoods trail you would hike with your father. It’ll get you to the other side of the park, the side you need to be. You know you should include the team in this decision, that you’re putting yourself directly in harm’s way. This feels so personal, so vulnerable, though, that your feet are moving before your mind can catch up to your body.

It doesn’t take long for Emily to notice you’ve gone, as you can hear her muffled “shit!” come from behind. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as you pause, waiting for her to pass by to continue your route.

The trail leads you to the other side, just as it always did, and it doesn’t take long for you to see him. Growing up in the shadow of your father means you know everything there is to know about psychoanalysis. This includes how to spot an unsub. It’s almost too easy at this point, like chess to their checkers.

You exit the trail, the unsub clocking you almost immediately. He cocks his gun, pointing it right at you. You holster yours, holding your hands up in surrender.

“I’m not here to fight. I just want to talk,” you say, voice calm and collected.

“I refuse to talk to a Gideon,” he spits your name. It’s venomous, vengeful. So it is personal.

“Okay, then pretend I’m not a Gideon. Pretend I’m someone who just wants to have a conversation,” you say. You move closer, despite your better judgement.

“Do you think I’m stupid?!” He grits out, aggravation evident in his tone. People around are starting to notice, to flee. You put yourself between him and any other pedestrians still at the park.

“God, you look just like him!” He sounds pained as he says it, like it almost hurts.

He lunges at you, then. Before your body can react, his forearm is held tight against your throat, the gun pressed to your temple. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, as your eyes frantically search for anything they can find.

Then, you spot it. It’s tiny, you could’ve easily missed it. D.M. Small, stark letters tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Your breath catches in your throat when it sinks in.

“Your dad killed my father,” you say. It’s strained as you fight for breath.

“What?” The man says, gripping you tighter.

“D.M. On your wrist. Donnie Mallick. He killed my father,” you breathe, a bead of sweat forming on your forehead. The man pauses, lowering the gun from your head. He’s distracted. Now’s your chance.

You make quick work of gripping the gun, stomping on his foot with your heel to get him to let go of the weapon. His arms collide with your middle, knocking you to the ground. Your knee strikes his gut, and he keels into you. You watch as his arm winds back, gearing up to deliver a severe punch. You wiggle around, bracing yourself for impact.

“I have to finish what he started.”

It’s the last thing you hear before his weight is taken off you completely. You turn to see Spencer on top of him, cuffing his hands behind his back. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, the adrenaline mixing with the utter shock of seeing Spencer take down an unsub like that, of seeing Spencer at all. He hands him off to Rossi and makes quick work moving to you.

You dust yourself off, standing on shaky ground. You look at Spencer, only a few feet away, but it feels like oceans. You’re both breathing deep, his chest mirroring your own heaving. You watch as he takes long strides, his hands gripping your face before pulling your lips to his.

He kisses you like you’re Penelope and he’s Odysseus, reunited after 10 years apart. In a way, you feel like you have been. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. He deepens the kiss, his lips covering yours almost entirely. His hands find the small of your back, hoisting you closer. He pulls back for air. You can’t help but chase his lips. He gives you one more peck before pulling you back into his chest.

“You really shouldn’t sneak off alone like that,” he breathes. You laugh against him, squeezing him tighter.

The ride back to the bureau with Spencer is quiet. Not tense, but a comfortable silence that falls over you two like a soft blanket. Your brow quirks when Spencer veers to the right, 2 blocks from the office.

“Spencer, you’re going the wrong way,” you breathe out, knowing deep down there’s no possible way he made this mistake unintentionally.

“No, I’m not. You’ll see,” there’s a small smile on his face. You settle back into your seat.

A swarm of butterflies is unleashed in your stomach as he pulls into an all-too-familiar parking lot. The red and white neon sign frames the car in the late sunset. ‘Buddy’s 24H Diner. Best Milkshakes In Town!’ A tear sneaks its way down your cheek before you can stop it.

“My dad used to take me here all the time,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “It’s the only place he liked that he could take me to after cases.”

“I know,” he smiles. “Let’s go.”

You’re seated in the corner booth, the one your dad insisted on every time. Your lips curl around your milkshake straw, fighting for your life to suck out the thick liquid. It’s not lost on you when Spencer’s eyes follow the movement, bringing his own cup to his lips.

“I’ve been having a hard time, having you on the team,” Spencer mutters. Your heart sinks.

“Oh?” You attempt to remain as calm as possible. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs, avoiding eye contact. Your heart picks up in speed, thrumming in your ears.

“I was such a different person when Gideon was in my life. I don’t think I was prepared for another one to enter,” he takes a bite of his burger, chewing before continuing. “Since I got out of prison, I’ve been so desperate to put my old life behind me. You joining the team has forced me to admit that life doesn’t work that way.”

You pop a fry into your mouth, chewing on that and what he said.

“Why were you in prison?” You ask, feeling a slight tinge of regret at the way he flinches.

“I was framed by an unsub. She had someone on the outside,” his voice is clipped. You count yourself lucky for getting even this much information.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. He shrugs.

“It’s just…thinking about the me I was when I worked with your father…” he trails off, eyes darting out the window. “I was so different. So naive. I had no idea what this job would do to me. So, when I saw you on your first day, it was like all these pieces of my life were colliding. I wasn’t ready for it. I froze. It’s no excuse for how I’ve treated you these past few weeks, and I’ll do everything and anything to make it up to you. I’m sorry,” he finishes with a deep exhale.

“I had a hard time, too,” you mutter, his eyes shooting up to you.

“With what?” He breathes.

“Reconciling my feelings for the great Dr. Spencer Reid.” His brow quirks in confusion. “You’re not the only one with a past life, y’know?” Your voice is sarcastic, but kind all the same.

“You may have only heard about me in passing, but my dad…God, he worshipped you. You were all he talked about most days. I was young. I felt inadequate. When I found out that was the man I ended up sleeping with, I…retreated. I couldn’t make peace with it either,” you utter, a shaky exhale following.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mumbles, his eyes going soft.

You reach across the table, holding his hand in yours.

“Thank you for the apology, Spencer. It’s okay. How could you have known?” your eyes gleam, the emotion palpable between you two. “Expect to be put through the ringer, though. You said everything and anything, I’m holding you to that.” You point a fry at him in a threatening manner. He smiles.

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.” God, his smile is pretty.

“So…” you trail off, flirtation lacing your tone. “What was that kiss back there? You weren’t even supposed to be in the field.”

He avoids eye contact again, fighting back a smile.

“When someone I care about that much risks her life for a case, I’ll find a way to get there. No matter what.” His voice is low, warm. A shiver unzips your spine.

“I’m glad you did,” you smile.

Hours tick by, you and Spencer only moving to use the restroom. It’s like you’re catching up on all the dates you could have had in one night. You’re not complaining.

Each new fact you learn about Spencer makes your heart swell. His pain, his joy, his work. You want to swim in his memories until you’re laced in all of them.

You talked about your dad, about your work at the History Center, and how it led you to the bureau.

“Emily sweet talked me into it. I don’t know how anyone can say no to her,” you chuckle, sipping what must be your fourth cup of coffee.

It’s pitch black out now, the diner nearly empty. Your eyes began to feel heavy hours ago. You still haven’t moved. You can tell Spencer’s tired, too. The bags under his eyes are prominent, darker than usual.

Speak of the devil, both your phones buzz with an alert from your unit chief.

Emily: I know you’ve been at that diner all night. Go home and go to bed, you psychopaths.

You look at Spencer, brow raised. “My place?”

“Let’s do it,” Spencer smiles.

#kisreadingagain #SO GOOD!!

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alsofoundinpeas · 5 days ago

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ALSOFOUNDINPEAS 500 FOLLOWERS EVENT!!!

I've reached 500 followers!! :') I just want to say thank you from the very bottom of my heart for each and every one of you. I first started this blog as a silly little side hobby, but since starting it to now, I've developed some of the most genuine and beautiful friendships I could ever ask for, and I've received so much love and support for my fics. SOO as a thank you (and formal apology for being so absent recently), I've created this event! <3

The game is inspired by Battleship, and with every "ship" that's revealed, there will be a prize!

Rules: Send in an ask (anonymous or not) with three guesses.

*Please only do one ask per day to help keep it fair :)

Every night at 10:00 p.m. CST, I'll tally up which spots had the most guesses and strike them on the board (and post with an updated board showing progress, of course). Once a ship is revealed with its prize, I'll then post a poll so everyone can vote on what they'd like the revealed prize to be.

*The prizes are fic writing-related, so please keep this in mind.

Good luck and have fun!! 🥳🫶🏼

#SO THANKFUL!!!#I love you all so BIG MWAH 🫶🏼#Spencer Reid smut #Spencer Reid fanfic #Spencer Reid fanfiction #Spencer Reid x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #afip’s 500 Follwers Event!!

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alsofoundinpeas · 10 days ago

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This is precious 😭

𝐈'𝐦 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐭 𝐈𝐧 𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐂𝐮𝐩- 𝐒.𝐑.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x ChildrensLibrarian!Reader

WC- 4.7k

Summary- Spencer stumbles on an incredibly special story time at the library one day. It changes everything.

Contains- Miss Honey-esque reader, Spencer is a complete and total simp, reader is described with curly hair that can be tucked behind her ears, idiots in love, love-ish at first sight, they keep missing each other until they don't

A/N- heavily recommend listening to potion by djo while reading this 😇 (also just in general) divider from @thecutestgrotto! Blurb of their date can be found here!

Spencer Reid is on a mission. The smoky scent of the local library engulfs him, the earthiness nearly swallowing him whole as the sliding doors part. He’s single minded today, on the hunt for Trediakovsky’s Razgovor ob Ortografii. While the study of the phonetic structure of the Russian language sounds like some light reading to him, his use for it today is much more sinister. The case they’re on is local, a serial killer leaving Russian poems at each crime scene. The letters and words twist in his mind as he tries to make sense of them, of why they were picked, why they were left at certain crime scenes, why-

“Now every year in Africa, they hold the Jungle Dance, where every single animal turns up to skip and prance!” He freezes in his tracks.The softest voice lilts its way in his head, breaking through his swirling sinister speculations. It’s a girl. The prettiest one he’s ever seen. His heart picks up at the sight of her, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drape over her frame, the way her soft dress flows over it. They nearly roll back in his head once he sees the soft fabric delicately, deliciously, cinch her waist.

She’s reading to a crowd of eager listeners, most of them below the age of seven. She’s able to captivate what could be an incredibly rambunctious group, and that feat alone is enough to stop Spencer in his tracks.

“And this year when the day arrived, poor Gerald felt so sad, because when it came to dancing, he was really very bad,” a soft sadness captivates her voice, prompting a few ‘awww’s from the crowd of littles.

Before Spencer could stop himself, before he knew what he was even doing, he took two steps toward her, lingering gently in the back of the crowd. There’s a voice in the deepest recess of his mind- ‘focus on the case, focus on the book.’ And yet, the only thing he can focus on is the way each word fits around her mouth, her supple lips twisting and turning to capture each word, each nuance.

“The warthogs started waltzing, and the rhinos rock ‘n’ rolled,” she whips her hair slightly, her fingers stretched in a ‘rock on’ sign that encourages fits of giggles from the group. Spencer himself even cracks a smile.

Soon enough, Spencer’s learned all about Gerald- the giraffe who can’t dance- and how he finds his confidence, and how the audience can too! She’s so enthralling, the way her ringlets bounce with each movement, the shine of her lip gloss in the fluorescent light- how can someone look that good in fluorescent lighting? So enthralling, he doesn’t even register how weird it might look that he’s the only childless adult in the group. A fact he should be self conscious of, if it weren’t for the way his heart pounds when he looks at her.

He eventually retreats, pursuing the foreign language section in the world’s most pathetic attempt at nonchalance. Really, he should win an award for stupidity, with the way his eyes find her every 30 seconds, desperate to keep her in his line of sight. Soon enough, a light, floral aroma breaks through the bibliosmia coating the building. He turns, almost flinching at the proximity to her.

“Hi,” she smiles, and he’s a goner. His ever racing mind, the one that couldn’t shut off just moments ago, now rendered completely useless thanks to a sundress and perfume. IQ slashed to 80, as the team likes to say. “You seemed to be very interested in Gerald the dancing giraffe, I can’t help but think these books might be a little bit out of your lexile range, if that’s the case,” she references the stacks of Russian literature they stand before.

He chuckles, a breathless, unbelieving sound forced from his chest. His cheeks tint, a reddish hue overtaking them. He looks at his shoes. “Uhm, yeah. Yeah. I guess that would be the case wouldn’t it?” He makes the mistake of looking back up at her. Their eyes meet. His heart stops.

This must be what dying feels like. He’s dying, isn’t he? He has to be, because there’s no way people feel this way every time they’re attracted to someone. How would anyone get anything done? She giggles then, and it only makes it worse.

“What are you really here for? Let me help you,” she smiles, and he almost keels over at that moment.

“I’m looking for Trediakovsky, Razgovor ob Ortografii,” the Russian flows neatly off his tongue. Her eyes widen, an impressed smile creeping up her lips.

She nods, “Hm, handsome and smart, I’ll have to remember you.” He’s dizzy as he watches her scan through the rows of books- a perfectly manicured finger grazing the spines. He wonders what it’d be like for her to do that down his own spine. He shivers.

“Ah! Here it is!” she plucks it from the shelf, turning to him with an assured smile. “I can only give it to you if you tell me your name.”

A blush creeps up his neck once more, he avoids eye contact. His heart drops when he hears his phone beep in his back pocket. The case. His face goes white as he rips it from his pocket, coming face to face with a message from Derek.

Hello??? We’ve been waiting for 45 minutes. I hope the unsub got you because that’s the only reason I won’t whoop your ass for taking so long.

Spencer’s blush deepens He puts his phone down, coming face to face with her again. Her brows are furrowed this time, a pout on her lips that feels like an anvil on his heart.

“I have to go, I’m so sorry. I’m-um-yeah,” he turns, running off at the speed of light. He leaves the library. Without the book.

20 minutes later, he’s stuck in the passenger seat of the SUV, next to a very disapproving Morgan.

“I mean, you’re literally considered a genius by governmental standards, Reid. I don’t know how you forgot the one thing you needed from this library,” Morgan’s fingers tap against the steering wheel in their own impatient dance.

Spencer’s heart stops as they pull up to the library, the only saving grace of this moment the sheer prospect of being able to see her again. His palms sweat as he walks in behind Derek, who immediately flashes his badge to the older woman at the front desk. Spencer follows suit, and he sees the woman’s eyes light up in a way that says ‘hey, I know you!’

He prays she won’t say anything about his earlier…conversations with her coworker, desperate to keep it from Derek as long as possible. At least until he knows her name. But of course, he’s afforded no such luck.

“Oh, I had a feeling you’d be back! You were looking for the Russian book, yes? The…Trediakovsky?” She pushes up the sleeves of her pink knit cardigan as she moves, maneuvering the tiny space they stand before.

“Ah! Here it is, our lovely children’s librarian dropped it off for you, said you might be coming back for it,” there’s a twinkle in her eye as she says it. Spencer’s face is red as a beet, he can just feel it. “She really is very good, you know. Families come from miles away to hear her read. If either of you have little ones at home, feel free to come see us, tell ‘em Myrtle sent ya,” she winks as she scans the book. Spencer locks his eyes on her movements, even when Morgan glances back at him. Especially when Morgan glances back at him.

Once it’s been checked out, he grabs it from her with a breathy, “thank you,” before rushing off to the parking lot.

He stops with his hand at the car door, frozen in place at the sight of her. She’s toting multiple large bags through the parking lot, arms full of various costumes and fabrics as she attempts to unlock her car. Derek saddles up behind him, lifting his sunglasses. His confused gaze melts into one of petulant understanding, an older brother who found his diary littered with his crush’s name.

“Ahh, now I see why you forgot,” he ruffles his hair before jogging to the other side of the car. “I’d give you a chance to go help her, but your little mistake has now put us back 40 minutes. Get in.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, cheeks heating even more when she turns towards their voices, their eyes connecting. There’s a sparkle in hers, one of kind familiarity that sends his heart into a tailspin. He nods ever so slightly. He gets in the car.

You walk up and down the aisles, browsing the expansive children’s section for this week’s read aloud. Giraffes Can’t Dance was a hit, for more than your usual reasons. You shake that thought from your head, burying the unusual disappointment of not seeing the handsome, illusive stranger since that day. You clocked him the second he walked through the door, frenzied and frantic. You clocked the way he slowed down when he saw you, the small, purposeful steps he took in contrast with the quick pitter pats of his entrance.

His eyes never left you the whole time. While that’s not atypical during your story times, it usually comes from wide-eyed toddlers, not the most handsome being on two legs. His eyes were jet streams, steering gusts of wind right through you, rendering you breathless. You could never forget those brown eyes. It’s making you nearly insane.

You crouch in front of your seasonal display, various titles about the arrival of spring popping out at you. You decide on one of your favorites- There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Frog. You glance at the clock- you have about an hour until the kids begin arriving. You have plenty of time to get into costume. You smooth down the front of your dress, knowing it’ll be covered in one of Myrtle's cardigans in no time.

You situate yourself in the break room, assembling all your necessary materials to get ready for this morning’s read aloud. You fix a grey wig onto your head, along with fake glasses with a chain. You complete your look by adding wrinkles along your face, even going so far as to grab your frog puppet. Puppets are a necessity in a read aloud.

Your heels click their way out to the main lobby, where families have already begun to trickle in. You’re already in character, greeting the kids in a shaky voice, pretending not to recognize your own name.

"You're looking for who? Well, I've never heard of her in my whole life!" You'd insist to fits of giggles.

You eventually make your way over to the chair, frog and book in hand. You’re still waiting for one person in particular, though you know wishing to see him again would be like wishing on a dead star.

Every time you hear the door open, your back straightens just slightly. You’re met with Myrtle’s disappointed shake of the head each time. She’s heard your ramblings all about this mystery man over the past week, and of course is in full support. She even told you she gave your read alouds a shoutout, just so he would come back. You smile at the memory, though your heart sinks at the prospect of him not coming back. It’s agony, not even knowing his name. You could at least have done some internet stalking, but no. The world does not seem to be so kind.

Until it is. Myrtle shoots up, a gleeful ‘hello!’ spilling from her lips. Your heart begins racing, pounding against your ribcage with fervor. You see a familiar head of brown, fluffy hair, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips. You even forget your ridiculous getup, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t take long for the universe to unleash its cruelty once more, as a blonde woman with two children walks in behind him. Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach. Of course he’s taken, you think, face burning with humiliation. He wasn’t wearing a ring, so you’d assumed you just got lucky. Clearly not.

The boys are adorable, though it takes everything in you to put a smile on your face. You welcome them in your crotchety grandma voice, despite wishing for the ground to swallow you whole.

His soft chuckle rings in your ears, ricocheting like gunshots. You flinch. His smile drops at that, his eyes studying you in a way that leaves you vulnerable, raw. You can’t help but catch his gaze, silently communicating to this stranger everything he’s made you feel.

Once the kids are all accounted for, you begin your story. For a moment, you disconnect, losing yourself entirely in the story of the old lady who swallowed the frog, the dirt, the seeds, the sunlight. Once the story is finished, you place the book in your lap to thunderous applause.

“Wow! Thanks so much for joining me in that journey, friends!” you exclaim, your grandma voice still entirely intact. “Now, I have a special surprise for you guys,” you wiggle your eyebrows as the kids anticipatingly lean forward.

You reach behind you, grabbing seeds for various plants- marigolds, sunflowers, lettuce, and beans. “We are going to plant some seeds, just like my friend here swallowed!” You point to the old lady on the cover of the book. “We are going to be the first planters in our new community garden here at the library!”

The kids take immediate gratification in this activity, racing to get their own pouch of seeds to plant. You line them up in an orderly fashion, your mystery man front and center- of course- before leading them out to their own section of the garden. You walk up and down the patch of grass your boss so gracefully granted you for this project, a smile wide on your face.

That is, until you bump into him. You stop abruptly, face heating as his gorgeous brown eyes bore into yours. Your heart shutters against your chest, completely ignoring the blonde woman behind him with two kids.

“Oh!” You gasp. “Uhm-hello, I- I didn’t think I’d see you again. It’s good to have you here, with the whole family!” There’s an airy lilt to your voice, disingenuous in every way possible. He sees right through it, you can tell by the light chuckle, followed by the realization dawning on his raised brow, his wide eyes.

“Oh! Oh, no-I uhm, this is my-” he clears his throat, gesturing to the woman and children behind him. “This is my coworker, and her kids. Her kids with another man-uhm-not with me. I’m just the godfather.”

His face is beet red. You can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes you. You smile gently at his awkwardness, thankful you’re not the only one feeling vulnerable seeing him again.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer,” the blonde says, shaking your hand and wiggling her way in between you two.

“Jennifer, hi,” you smile, breathing out your own name in return.

“And these are my two boys, Henry and Michael!” She scoops up the youngest one, and you absolutely melt. They’re both the picture of sweetness, big blue eyes and chubby cheeks that won’t quit. They excitedly wave hello and you crouch down to meet the older one at eye level.

“Well, hello!” You chirp. “How are you? It’s so nice to meet you!” He’s shy, you can tell by the way his cheek meets his shoulder, the bashful look in his eye.

“I liked your story,” he mumbles. Your heart is a puddle in your chest. Those four words are music to your ears, the reason you show up day in and day out.

“I’m so glad! Have you gotten the chance to plant anything yet, Henry?” You ask, and he nods fervently.

“I planted marigolds with my brudder!” He exclaims, grabbing your hand to show you his hard work.

“Wow! Look at you two!” You exclaim, turning back to include the little one in his mom’s arms. Though, when you do turn, you freeze at the big, brown eyes still trained on you. His gaze is sparkling, full of light and adoration that make you feel fuzzy inside. Your stomach is a butterfly garden, rendering you lovesick and dizzy.

You finch at the sharp beep of a cell phone, Jennfier reaching in her back pocket with her free hand. She groans, and your heart drops.

“Spencer, we gotta go,” she whispers, though you catch his name and cling onto it for dear life.

Spencer, Spencer, Spencer.

His face falls, yours with it. You mirror each other’s regret, a sad smile forming on your face as the boys cling to you in deep goodbye hugs.

“Thank you very much for your hard work,” Jennifer says. “Hopefully, we’ll be back, godfather included.” Her tone is playful, her brows wiggling as she glances in between you and Spencer. Spencer.

The jet engine rumbles as the team settles in after another successful case. Spencer’s already made himself comfortable, curled up on the couch, desperate to think of anything other than the pretty librarian mind controlling him. He’s leaning into dramatics, this he knows. His forearm draped over his eyes, his free one limp at his side. He’s sure he looks like something out of Madame Bovary. The fabric of her dress swishing around in his mind renders him unable to care.

That is, until he feels a rustling of his hair. He peeks over his arm to see J.J. and Derek, watching him with knowing smiles on their faces.

“You guys look like the unsub we just caught,” Spencer muffles out, pride singed at their intentional, teasing gazes.

“Maybe…” Derek trails, “or maybe we just want to support you. Ever thought about that?”

This causes Spencer to sit up. Derek’s hardly ever this nice to him without a catch. He loves him for it, the way a brother would, but it doesn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck from standing.

“What could you possibly want to help me with?” Spencer mutters. He knows playing dumb is useless, but he’s not sure he’s ready to face the reality of his rapid heart, his swirling thoughts.

“I don’t know…maybe a girl…” J.J. trails, and he’s a goner. “Maybe she works at the library, is great with kids, someone you couldn’t keep your eyes off of.”

He stands at that, walking to the other side of the jet. Their playful scoffs and footsteps follow behind him.

“Oh, come on, man! There’s nothing wrong with having a little crush!” Derek teases, nudging his shoulder with his. Spencer plows ten fingers through his hair before sitting in a corner seat.

“Aah, Boy Genius has a crush, eh?” Dave chimes in, turning in his chair to get a better look at the scene unfolding.

“Ohh, is that why you forgot that Russian book the other week? I thought there was something up with you, I just never guessed it’d be a girl!” Emily interjects, a smile spreading on her face.

“I am never talking to you people ever again,” Spencer states plainly, closing his eyes and turning his body away from his team.

“Leave him alone,” he hears Hotch warn. He’s stern as always, but there’s a playful lilt in his tone that has Spencer’s cheeks heating up. Why is he on this team again?

He’s rustled awake a few hours later, surprised that he was able to get some actual shut eye on the jet. He wipes his eyes to see Derek above him. He rolls his eyes, but Derek offers him a hand, helping him up. He claps a hand on his shoulder as they walk out.

“I’m sorry for teasing you, man,” he starts. “It’s not a bad thing to have feelings for someone, y’know? Maybe she likes you back.”

Spencer wrestles with the thought, an activity he’s grown way too accustomed to these past few weeks. He raises a brow at Derek, an unsure, “maybe,” leaving his lips.

Derek gives him two supportive pats before hopping off the jet. “C’mon, I’ll take ya home.”

Spencer’s brow starts to raise as Derek misses several turns, at one point going the exact opposite way of Spencer’s apartment.

“You do know where I live, right?” He asks, confusing lacing each syllable.

“Of course I do, genius,” the sarcasm rolls off Derek's tongue. “I just thought there’s somewhere else you’d rather be right now.”

Realization dawns on him as Derek parks in front of the library. Spencer’s heart drops, his palms immediately clamming up, mind calculating any and all possibilities. What if I smell from the jet? What if I look like I haven’t slept in four days? I mean I haven’t, but…can’t I take a shower first?

Derek must see the reservation on his face. He checks his watch. “From what I can tell, story time starts in about 5 minutes. That’s Will’s car over there,” Derek points out the window to a blue sedan that does in fact belong to the father of his godchildren. “Go get her.”

Invigorated by his words, Spencer darts out of the car, go bag slung over his shoulder. Derek speeds off before he can change his mind, leaving Spencer to cough on the dust. A small smile forms on his face, feeling lucky to be cared for in such a way.

He turns, now intimidated by the large building, glass windows stretching from floor to ceiling. He sees her setting up on the first floor. His heart skips a beat.

She’s wearing a new dress today, one he hasn’t seen before, that is. It’s a cream colored, decorated with dainty pink flowers that clutch his heart. The sleeves are puffy, decorating her shoulders as she works hastily to put her finishing touches on the day’s read aloud.

She freezes when she sees him, and it finally dawns on him how much of a creep he must look like, watching her from the window. His cheeks heat up, that panicky feeling pumping through his heart. She smiles and waves. It only makes it worse. He feels as if he could melt into a puddle, right there on the sidewalk. He manages his own smile and wave, and she moves her arm in a ‘come here!’ motion.

It feels like he’s stuck in quicksand, the world slowing down as he enters the building. He’s not sure why, but it feels much more real this time. He’s come for her, and her only. There’s no more pretenses, no more games. It scares the living daylights out of him. He keeps walking, anyway.

He’s greeted by Myrtle, her knowing smile growing bigger as she sees him. He offers her a polite nod, before beelining directly for the children’s area.

“Uncle Spencer!” Two little voices cry out as Henry and Michael wrap themselves around his legs. He feels her eyes snap towards the noise, a pretty smile lining her lips as she watches the scene.

“Hi boys!” He whispers, trying not to cause any more commotion.

He settles in behind the boys, Will giving him a very knowing nod. The small bodies quiet at her request as she opens the book. The Very Hungry Caterpillar rests delicately between her fingers, manicured nails flipping through the pages with ease.

He watches in awe as she reads, the way she’s able to captivate a group of children, the adults, even, the ease with which she switches in and out of her goofy voices. It’s a talent. One that Spencer would do anything to watch behind the scenes. Each fruit and food mentioned gets their own moment, a stuffed apple resting on her lap, bowls of strawberries, grapes, and oranges lining the table next to her as the caterpillar wiggles his way through each food.

By the end, the kids all have sticky faces and fingers, the smiles not leaving their faces. She’s met with raucous applause afterwards, Spencer can’t resist joining in. She rests the book in her lap and leans forward.

“Thank you so much for coming, my friends!” She squeals. “If you planted some seeds last week, we will be going out to the garden to look at our progress! If you didn’t get a chance to, don’t worry! We have plenty of seeds leftover! Please form a quiet line at the door!”

He’s speechless at the way she commands the room, the kids wiggling around each other to get to the front. Spencer laughs at their attempts to be as quiet as possible, all while wanting to be as close as possible to their favorite librarian. He knows the feeling well.

He finds himself back where he was a week before, waiting with Henry and Michael, waiting for her to notice him. Waiting. That pang returns, the one he’s felt these past few weeks. The waiting, the wanting, the longing. It’s almost too much for him to bear as she nears closer, her eyes alight at the work the kids have done. They shine even brighter when she reaches him, her hands clasped to her chest.

“Wow, boys! Look at what you did! You made that! Be proud of yourself!” She’s crouched down at their level, holding her hand up for enthusiastic high fives.

Henry’s nearly knocks her off kilter, but she readjusts on small kitten heels that Spencer has decided are the bane of his existence. They’re cute, pink sandals with a bow at the top. All he can think about is how they’d look at his front door, resting next to his Converse.

He shakes that thought off when her gaze turns to him. By some grace of a higher power, his brain functions enough to offer her a hand. She accepts it as she rises back up, holding onto his hand for just a moment longer than necessary. It’s electric, energy charging through his veins at her touch. It’s static on his heart, electrocuting him and rendering him completely helpless. Helpless to her.

“Hello Spencer, it’s good to see you again,” her voice is small, flirty yet professional. She smooths down the fabric of her dress, her eyes scanning him up and down. He shifts, self consciously, but the small smile on her lips tells him she’s not judging. She never has.

“Oh! Mr. LaMontagne, forgive me, it’s great to see you again,” she jumps, shaking his hand with forgiveness.

Will holds a hand out, nodding his head in understanding. “No worries, doll. This has been a bit of a team effort,” he jokes, referencing between Spencer and her.

“Oh, goodness,” she says, gentle but embarrassed. She tucks her hair behind her ears. Spencer’s officially fallen. Hard. Will nods, moving away to be with the boys.

“So, Spencer…” She trails off, and he can’t help himself.

“Will you go out with me?” Spencer burts. Her face lights up. “We just keep missing each other, and I think you’re incredibly beautiful and so amazing at your job. I just want to get to know you more, if you’ll let me.”His smile is bashful to match hers, his cheeks tinted a bright red.

“That sounds amazing, thank you for thinking of me, Spencer,” her voice is so soft, he could wrap himself in it like a blanket. He breathes out a laugh, as if he could think about anything other than her.

She grabs a pink marker from the pocket of her dress and flips his palm over. He’s once again rendered useless by her touch. He feels some ticklish scribbles, his eyes trained on her the entire time. She looks up at him through her lashes, meeting his gaze. The sight constricts his heart, those eyes gripping it firmly, squeezing for all its worth. He needs a nurse.

“Call me, we’ll set something up,” she mutters lowly, a wink punctuating her words. Spencer nods his head bashfully, heat once again singing his cheeks.

“Yeah, okay. Yeah,” he replies. He gives himself some grace, it’s all his brain can come up with.

He watches her go, eyes trained on her as she continues to work her magic. The way she lights up at each child, finding something new and unique in each of them warms his heart. He smiles, eager for what the future could hold with such a sweet soul.

#kisreadingagain

551 notes · View notes

alsofoundinpeas · 13 days ago

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LOVER YOU’VE DONE IT AGAIN!! Amazing 🫶🏼

FOR YOUR LOVE (i’ll do whatever you want) — spencer reid

In which Spencer begs for your forgiveness.

genre smut (18+) cw dacryphilia, pathetic love and touch starved spence, worship and praise, begging, crawling, marking his back with your heels, oral (f receiving), p in v, mirror sex, some discussion/fighting, established relationship, mention of r having a mom, r wearing a dress and heels wc 4,1k a/n race against the clock to post this on the kinkfest date. literally going on vacation in a couple of hours and yes i used my precious sleeping time writing this. you cant tell me i don’t have my priorities straight /jk

Spencer: We delivered a wrong profile Spencer: I can’t make it tonight Spencer: I’m so sorry Spencer: ❤️

You didn’t have to check your purse when the notifications chimed in, already knowing the messenger and the context. It wasn’t the first time Spencer had cancelled on you: lunches, dates, holidays, vacations… To be honest, you had stopped trying. Had stopped planning anything in advance and telling yourself that spontaneous activities were more fun. But right now, sitting in a restaurant with your family as you were celebrating your mother’s birthday that you had been planning for weeks, it was a harsh reminder that this lifestyle wasn’t fun. Not at all.

The one-year mark of your relationship was coming up, and you finally felt stable enough to introduce your boyfriend to your family. It wasn’t a thing you often or easily did, the gesture meaning a big deal to you. And Spencer had known that and had promised you that he would show up at all costs. But he didn’t, leaving you embarrassed as your family laughed and joked about the actual existence of this mystery man that you had been so infatuated with.

The dinner started in longing, wishing you had Spencer’s warm hand to hold in yours underneath the table when the conversations got too loud, or wishing for one of his intricate analyses on which dessert you should choose when you got handed the menu. But every time his name got mentioned, your frustrations began to grow.

“Thanks,” you mutter to your Uber driver while handing him twenty bucks for your ride home. Wrapping your arms around yourself (while thinking of Spencer, who always takes your jacket with him or gives you his when you refuse to take one with you, like now), you walk up to your apartment.

In your periphery, you notice a soft, dim light shining through the curtains of your living room, the sound of clicking heels against pavement halting abruptly. The latter texts you’ve received must’ve been him asking you if he could come over to your place while probably standing in front of your doorstep already. It had been raining earlier, so you can’t blame him for using the spare key you handed him after the four months you’d been dating. You gave him the excuse that you were too sleepy to open the door for him when he’d come home from a case in the middle of the night, and when he suggested that he could sleep at his place on those days, you had come up with another excuse while placing the key in his palm and closing his fingers around it. He had smiled goofily at you, had seen right through the act, obviously. But he didn’t comment on it, besides pressing a gentle kiss to your hand that was wrapped around his fist.

You never imagined a day to come where you’d feel sad and annoyed about the prospect of him sitting on your couch, able to envision the way he’s shaking his knees as he’s trying to come up with a new way to apologize for this repeated conflict.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of your mind, you unlock the door and open it with a soft creak. The hallway gives a panoramic view of the open living room, and like a deer caught in flashlights, Spencer’s head whips around to face you, those big brown bambi eyes searching for yours despite the few feet of distance.

He catches on to your mood as you silently place your purse on the dresser. The pillows on the couch ruffle as he sits up straighter, bending his body to face you.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t show up today,” his voice cracks, and you hate the way the small sound pulls on your heartstrings. “I– I don’t know what went wrong with the profile. We established it was a white male, but then—”

“Then it turned out to be a woman, and everyone was thrown off guard,” you finish with a jab. “I know how it goes, Spencer. A simple apology isn’t going to do it anymore.”

A sigh escapes you. “God, you don’t know how many times I had to reschedule things so that it fit into your schedule. This isn’t going to work if you can’t understand that.”

Desperation laced the soft tone of his whisper. “Then what do I do?”

You raise your hands in the air in question before they fall back on your thighs with a thud. “Well, I don’t know. Beg on your knees for forgiveness?”

The harsh sarcasm slithered off of your tongue. It’s the classic image of mercy: hands clasped together, pleading on your knees with tear-streaked cheeks. There was no way he didn’t understand that. Still, the despair must have been bigger than his ego, because when you looked at him again, he had fallen to the ground, legs resting on the carpet.

“Spencer,” you start in a warning, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“I’ll do anything you tell me to do. Don’t be mad at me, please?”

Next were his hands. His long, delicate fingers made contact with the floor. And then his back: arching it like the pose came naturally to him.

“Spencer, please,” you try again, embarrassed by the way your skin heats at the act when you’re supposed to be mad at him.

With the way he’s bent down, you’re able to take a peek into his dress shirt and see the soft reddened skin of his neck and upper chest, decorated in some faded freckles you could blindly point out by now. It was only emphasized by the way his tie was sweeping over the floor with every hypnotizing sway of his hips as he crawled his way over to you.

There was no space to back away, feeling the cold wood of the dresser hit the back of your bare legs as you stumbled back. And truly, you were too curious to see how far he was planning on taking this in an attempt to win your forgiveness.

Kneeling in front of you, you could make out the faded red spots creased under his eyes, indicating that he’s probably cried before — beating himself up over not being able to make it. Those eyes were dangerous, you’ve always said it, big and glassy as they blink up at you, the green hints visible that you weren’t always able to see.

“You look so beautiful, I didn’t tell you that.”

He hadn’t.

You’d sent him a picture of the dress you were wearing when you were getting ready, him still at Quantico. When you first started dating, you quickly learned that Spencer wasn’t a good texter — far from it — but over time, he’d learned to text you back right away. On days when he wasn’t busy then. If you didn’t get a response back in the next two minutes, it was a sign for you to cancel whatever you had planned, knowing it would take at least hours for him to get home. Today was a day like that.

Spencer let his hand trail over your calf and up to the inside of your knee, goosebumps erupting at the gentle caress of his fingers.

He inches closer toward you, messy locks tickling as his eyes flit over your legs that are at eye-level with him. “Heels give the illusion that your legs are longer,” he explains, pressing a chaste kiss to the bare skin, testing the waters. “It all has to do with gravity,” another kiss, “you shift the center of it, which changes the body’s proportions,” kiss.

Every word he spoke, and every moment you stayed silent in anticipation, he took as an opportunity to take it a step further. Sweet pecks turned into longer presses of his lips, wetting them with his tongue to a dark pink hue before kissing you again. Occasionally giving a lick before wrapping his mouth around the muscle, sucking a mark.

It was a distraction. He was playing exactly into the need he knew you always had for him. It was a new tactic, and you had to give it to him; it was starting to work.

“Stop,” you announced, your voice stern as you used the tip of your shoe to press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

His brows furrowed, mouth dropping open in dissatisfaction. “Why?”

The way he says it makes him sound like a small child, not understanding the concept of not being able to get anything they want. And whatever nurturing qualities you have in you cause you to feel guilty. The clear, watery drops forming at the corners of his eyes don’t help with that either.

You cross your arms, assembling defiance. “Seducing me is fucking low, Spencer,” you scoff.

“I— I wasn’t—“ he panics. “I just missed you. I needed to touch you.”

“Well, I missed you too, Spencer! You were supposed to be there,” you groan out in frustration.

“I know, and I’m so sorry! I mean it.” He quickly apologizes. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, burying his face back into your thigh.

The wet stains of his tears transferred to your inner thighs, making his lashes stick messily together when he looked up at you. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you? Please?”

Reaching out, you wrap his tie around your fingers, making him groan as you tug him up on his feet.

Instinctively, he reaches out to place his big palms on either side of your waist, pulling you close.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” you tsk. “Help me up here.” You nod to the dresser you’re leaning against.

He blinks his confusion away, lowering his hands and bending through his knees to lift you up. You’re gently placed on the hardwood, dress lifted up in a bunch at your waist.

Maneuvering his body between yours, he’s ready to cup your cheek and envelop you in a kiss when you place your finger to his lips.

“Come on, angel,” he cries as you deny him again.

“You’re such a crybaby, Spence,” you huff. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

With his impatience igniting yours, you decide to not wait any longer and spread your legs.

Spencer’s gulp is visible, Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes drift to the lace between your thighs.

You raise an eyebrow. “Want to make it up to me?”

“Yes,” he answers breathlessly and nods. “I’ll do anything.”

“Kiss me, then,” you dare, fighting a sly smile as his pupils widen in awe.

Spencer drops himself to his knees, fitting his frame in between your legs as he spreads them open wider, the cold whoosh of wind that comes with the movement tickling your sensitive, covered folds.

He held you by your hips, scooting you forward so that his mouth was aligned with your cunt. “Smell so good,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose over your inner thighs. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he used the tip of his button nose to draw a line up your folds, his tongue following behind as it lapped up a wet stripe. You shivered at the touch, abdomen flexing as the thin lacy fabric pressed against you with the power of his tongue.

“Gonna get you so wet for me, going to make you feel so good,” he breathed against you, not sure if he intended for you to hear or if it was a promise to himself.

He repeated the motion, humming as his tongue came across your clit, feeling it swell under the tip of his tongue as he expertly flicked the little bud.

The barrier of underwear was starting to bother him, wanting — no, needing — to hear more of the beautiful, soft moans you were trying to hold back.

Carefully, he curved his finger into the fabric, pulling it aside so that it rested in the place where your thigh met your puffy lips. Then he dove back in.

“Yeah,” you moaned, leaning your head back. You could practically feel yourself dripping at this point, though you had to concentrate on it, because the second a stream flooded out of you, Spencer was there to lap it up.

Spencer was a loud lover: moaning and humming as he nibbled on your labia and circled your needy hole, getting immense pleasure from the way you squirmed or gasped when he hit the spot, from being the one to make you feel good.

You locked your legs around his back. With your heels still on, you dragged the sharp red points across his skin, pulling him in deeper.

“Oh, Spence, that’s it, right there—“ you whimpered, hands reaching out to lock in his hair.

His cock twitched up in his pants, rubbing against the pre-cum-stained spot that had been accumulating from the moment he went down on you.

Nothing spurred him on more than seeing you be so eager as you finally touched him, reaching out to him willingly.

On a mission to earn your love and release, he started sucking on your sweet spots with all his might. He hummed against the delicate pearl that was situated between his lips, keeping your hips steady, almost bruising you as he held you in place while you shook as your orgasm came down.

He continued to lick you clean while avoiding your sensitive clit. Reaching out with his thumb, he gathered the last of your wetness before pushing it back into you.

“Fuck,” you softly cry when his thumb enters you.

He hummed in observation. “You came without me using my fingers.”

A hoarse chuckle escaped your throat. “So what? You decided to finger-fuck me now?”

“I’d rather fuck you with my cock,” he states, the dirty words a sharp contrast to the sweet, boyishness of his voice.

Taking his words in, you decide to give him what he wants. Albeit on your terms.

“Stand up and turn around.”

It was fun ordering him around. Especially when he actually listened because his pulsing cock drove him desperate enough.

His knees cracked a little when he stood up, holding your gaze for as long as he could before he turned around, his back facing you.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him in closer until you were able to let your hands slide over his shoulders. You rested your head on them, breath fanning across his neck. “Did I hurt you with my heels?”

“N-no,” he swallowed at the proximity. “It felt good.”

You laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest, freeing a swarm of butterflies. “Of course you enjoyed it. You’re being such a good boy for me.”

The tips of your fingers moved down until they were splayed across his chest. Batting his tie away, you started opening up the buttons on his shirt — a skill you had grown quite expert in since dating Spencer Reid.

He breathed out a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly as more of his skin got exposed to the tension-filled air.

Knowing you weren’t able to reach the lower buttons (or maybe it was an act of haste), Spencer lent you a hand in taking the shirt off.

With a soft thud, the white fabric fell to the ground, and you hummed in pride as you spotted two pairs of red lines over his back.

Using your nails, you traced the pattern that you had created.

“Feels good, baby,” Spencer panted. His own hand has found its way to his bulge, squeezing the throbbing length in search of relief.

“Don’t know why you’re even trying,” you comment in a silken purr as you spot Spencer’s actions. “You know my hands feel better than yours.”

Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell a rouge blush had found its way to his cheeks by now. His voice sounded hopeful. “Would you touch me?”

You responded with a hum and a gentle squeeze of his slender waist. “You’ve been doing a very good job at listening. I think you deserve a reward. What do you think?”

He quickly nods. “Yeah. I’ve been good to you.”

It’s almost like he needs to remind himself, still feeling guilty of not showing up this evening when he had promised you so.

Still, he saw your words as an invitation to turn back around. He had his bottom lip trapped in between his teeth, watching you watch him.

“Looks pretty painful,” you remark as you let your fingers graze over his bulge.

Spencer bucks his hips up into you, cursing at his bodily functions as you take your hand away.

“Now you have to keep being patient, or I can put a stop to this right now.”

He didn’t know when he had subconsciously handed the reins back to you, you now in power when he had believed he’d found your salvation in between your thighs.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll be good.”

With a trusting nod, you moved to the button on his pants, undoing it with ease, and the zipper followed swiftly along.

You had to wrap your fingers around his shaft to pull him out, his cock having filled the fabric to the point where it was a struggle to just tug the material down his legs.

A sound in between a gasp and a moan left your lips at the sight of him. No matter how many times you’d seen him like this, it never failed to amaze you.

“You’re so pretty, Spence.”

His eyes were focused on the way your manicured nails tapped along his length. “Thank you.”

You used your thumb to paint his tip in sticky pre-cum, prepping him for what might come, as Spencer fought the urge to hiss in delight.

“You want more than just my hands, though.”

Spencer’s eyes found yours. He tried to read you, but it wasn’t as easy as it was on the job, distracted both by your beauty and by your warm touch as you played with him.

“If I’m allowed to,” he responded in perfect politeness.

You didn’t smile, solely shrugged. “I’m still pretty pissed at you,” you squeezed him in your palm. “Don’t know if I’ll allow you the pleasure.”

“But you deserve the pleasure,” he quickly intervened. “I’m not doing it for me,” lie, “you deserve to feel good.”

The wheels were turning in your head, and he used the chance to convince you more, adding some oil to the rusty mechanics. “You don’t even have to look at me. I’ll— I’ll turn you around. You can just focus on you. On feeling good.”

“Alright.”

He could cry in relief, his balls straining at the prospect. If there’s one situation he’s been most grateful he’s learned negotiation for at the academy, it might be this.

Gently, he helped you off the dresser, only to turn you around and attentively bend you over it. It was only then that he noticed the large round mirror on the wall above. He didn’t say any of it. Praying desire has clouded your mind as well.

After becoming aware of the mirror’s presence, he seemed to not be able to look away. It was a picture-perfect image, after all. Your face scrunched in pleasure as he held you by your hips and entered you in one smooth, long stroke.

Spencer sucked in a breath. “So warm, baby.” He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the skin to soften his whines as he started moving into you.

Your hands were gripping the sides of the dresser, nails biting into the wood as he stretched out your walls.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moaned into your shoulder, his breath starting to heave as he picked up his pace.

He was absolutely enamored by the way your breasts bounced, having asked you to pull the straps of your dress and bra down, your dress now bunched around your waist as Spencer used it as extra grip to slap his hips against you.

“Can you squeeze them for me, please?”

Catching his expression in the mirror, you couldn’t even try to hide your amusement at the question. Spencer held you steadily enough to let your hands roam to your tits, cupping the soft flesh before pressing them together.

An actual cry came out of his mouth, absolutely lovestruck with you as he fastened his speed.

“Mmhm,” he moans in a muffled tone, lips pressed against your hair, unapologetically taking whiffs of the sweet scent.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he praises as he picks up his speed, heavy balls slapping against you as his hot body is hovering over you.

The heat of his skin warming yours and the weight of the words he speaks engulf the entirety of your body in tingling sparks.

“So nice, Spence,” you softly whine as he presses into you deeper, leaving a mark inside that was only for him to feel.

“I know, baby. It’s so nice for me too,” he hums, his thumbs rubbing circles against your back.

The sensations were overwhelming, Spencer having his cock nuzzled inside of you, gratefully accepting him with every flutter of your cunt.

“So pretty. So messy, baby,” Spencer whines as he covers your shoulder in wet kisses, matching the sounds of skin against skin.

Through the reflection in front of you, you could see his face shining in what you first thought was sweat — but upon another look, realized were tears streaming down his face.

In concern, you commented on it. “Spencer, are you crying?”

“I— I’m sorry. You just feel so good, angel. I can’t help it.” He squeaked, not stopping the steady and deep rhythm that he had created.

You laughed, but the sound turned into a loud moan when his hand ghosted over your stomach and found its way to your clit.

“Can I make you come?”

“Yes!” You whine, teeth sinking into your lip. “Yes, please, Spencer.”

“Oh god, baby,” Spencer groans back. Hearing you be the one to beg him drove him crazy. He positioned you on his cock with his free hand, finding a new angle that made his eyes roll back in delight.

Sweat dripped down his face to his jaw, mixing with yours. His chest heaved against your back while he pinned you down against the dresser. His lips were on your shoulder and neck, sucking marks without any precision or care, just need. And two of his fingers moved against your clit at a speed that continued to fasten. You felt him everywhere.

A desperate sound filled the room. “I’m gonna come, baby, I can’t hold it anymore.” Spencer panted. “You feel so good. Jesus, so fucking good, angel.”

“Mmh,” you nod. “Want to feel you come inside of me, Spence. Fill me up.”

Your request was immediately answered. With a deep groan, followed by smaller moans and cries, he spilled into you.

He doesn’t stop like he usually would because of the sensitivity but instead prolongs the moment as long as he can — most of all, because he needs you to come too.

“Almost there,” you gasp in a breath as his fingertips are pulling you under.

Just a moment later, you’re shaking. Hands patting the dresser and reaching out to grab his arms in an effort to ground yourself as he makes you come.

You thought you saw it wrong when you looked at him in the mirror, seeing his mouth form the O-shape you knew all too well. But then his cock twitched inside of you, never having softened, and warm drops of his seed filled you again.

“Oh, angel,” he cried, his arms moving up to wrap around your waist.

“I know,” you reassure him. “You did so good, Spence. Made me feel so good.”

His hips shake and twitch until he’s given you his all.

He presses another kiss to the side of your forehead. “‘M sorry for today.”

Reaching your hand behind you, you cupped the other side of his face, forcing him to look at your reflection in front of him.

“It’s okay. You made it up to me,” you gently smiled.

“Should’ve just left work,” he sniffled, his grip around you lessening.

“Hey,” your tone takes him out of his thoughts, and you place your hand atop his to strengthen his hold on you. “She’ll still be in town. Why don’t we visit tomorrow morning? It’s on the way to Quantico, so worst case scenario, you drop me off and take the subway.”

A smile creeps onto his face, accepting your touch when you intertwine your fingers with his on your stomach. “That sounds good.”

#kisreadingagain #I love it when he’s pathetic #chef’s kiss

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alsofoundinpeas · 13 days ago

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The way that I’ve read most of these 🤭 (and will definitely be reading the rest 🫶🏼)

⋆･.˳.⋆ spencer reid x reader fanfic recommendations ⋆･.˳.⋆

these are all smut and feature afab reader 18+. mix of ao3 and tumblr . ♡ = ifykyk

dom! spencer

room 405 by smyrphse (ao3) - 100k words (longest fic ive read but so so so sooooo good. please peep the warnings for this one)

the eye of the beholder by @pathologicalreid

plain black coffee by elovea (ao3 again read warnings) ♡

bau unit chief by bleached eyes on ao3

trouble by mercyburning on ao3

playing with fire by an orphan acc

my boss's daughter by imagining_in_the_margins on ao3

dont call me by @reiderwriter

tie by @endearng

perv! spencer

obsession by badathumanemotions (ao3) ♡♡

still on the line by badathumanemotions (ao3)

the view from here by @alsofoundinpeas

sweeter than dreams by @mggslover

sick love pt2 by @misserabella

a hot blurb abt spencer stealing panties tehee by @palmerzy

sub! spencer

yes miss by stainlesssteel (ao3)

the enormity of my desire (disgusts me) by @vatelixx

the one where spencer has a hair pulling kink by anonymous ao3

overstimulating punishment by stainlessteel on ao3

endersandman 2 by @misserabella

daddy kink

baby listen by @spencahreadreid

oral (male recieving)

starry-eyes by @reiderwriter

a distracting dixation by @glorifiedagents ♡♡

slithered from eden by @esote-rika ♡

derision as prelude to desire by @esote-rika

good little helper by mercyburning (ao3) ♡

a happy camper by darnittumbleweed on ao3

masturbation (male)

okay this one is just a lil ask abt gooner spencer but its really hot by @minswriting

on the edge with you by abautifulmind on ao3

wish you were here by rosewaves ao3

missing you by differentkettleoffishalltogether ao3

no title</3 by @beelmons

good decoration by @stairain

your lips my lips by @ipseitydelrey (mommy kink too ig but yk)

mommy kink

meddle about by pinkchubbiebunnie on ao3

mommy's princess by foreverwonderiing on ao3

hope yall enjoy what these amazing creators write for us. please like and reblog (or comment on ao3!) on the original creators posts!!! <3333333333

#kisreadingagain

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alsofoundinpeas · 14 days ago

Note

I’M SO HONORED 😭🫶🏼

hey! do you have any favorite spencer x reader smut writers?

ohhhhh well i'll link a few i know from the top of my head but ill be honest i mostly only read fics on ao3 so i am very sorry if im missing some

@reidrum, @badathumanemotions, @alsofoundinpeas, @minswriting, @incognit0slut, @foxy-eva, @dudeitiskarev

#kisyappingagain #ILYSM <3 #AHHH

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alsofoundinpeas · 28 days ago

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Giggling, kicking my feet, twirling my hair, biting my lip, blushing, SQUEALINGGGGGG

GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment.

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

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alsofoundinpeas · 28 days ago

Text

I think this just healed me truly 😭🫶🏼

Hold Onto You

Spencer ruminates about his relationship—their past, present, and hopefully future

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Tags: Fluff w.c: 1.49k a/n: Feeling highly rusty but the only way out of a writer’s block is through. A huge thank you to emme (@thegloryofliterature) for being my draft reader and for being one of the few moots i run to when a fic idea comes. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The grandfather clock tucked in the little corner of the newly renovated living space struck 1 am. Candles littered in various table tops, its’ wick flickering close to exhaustion, wax melted all around.

Its’ occupants, the owners and their guests, were murmuring their goodbyes, some slurring their words compared to the others. Penelope Garcia, a fine example, was flushed from the copious red wine and with her kitten heels dangling from her fingertips, leaned against the protective arms of one sober Derek Morgan.

“We had a great time,” JJ smiled at the couple, her cheeks a shade of strawberry pink from the alcohol consumed.

“The new place also looks great,” Emily nodded before one corner of her lips quirked up into a smirk. “Which we all know is mainly due to your taste rather than Spencer’s.”

You giggled as Spencer let his indignation known.

“You’re all welcome back anytime, truly,” your left bare hand finding solace on your boyfriend’s chest.

Morgan chuckled. “We might just take you up—”

Penelope squirmed in his arms, her manicured hands reaching across the threshold to squeeze yours once more.

“You’re so so—” she lengthened the vowel, hiccuping in between. “—sweet. I could just eat you up—”

“Garcia!” Spencer groaned.

“—but I won’t cause boy genius won’t allow me to,” she pouted.

“And that’s our cue. Good night you two and thanks again for tonight,” Morgan tilted his head to address the youngest member of the team in jest. “Reid, don’t do anything I won’t do, alright?”

They all laughed at his reddening cheeks.

Saying their farewells, the couple watched as the four step onto the awaiting elevator. Once the lift started their descend down, they shut their own door and settled into the abrupt silence of the apartment.

Spencer watched as his girlfriend of four years burst into giggles, shoulders shaking from the act.

With shiny eyes meeting his, “I had fun tonight, really.”

Any remnants of trepidation from tonight flushed clean from his system, as if the elation shone on your face was all he need to feel all was right in the world.

It was an emotion he wrangled with still, no matter how many years had passed. Spencer knew the statistics of FBI agents in correlation to keeping a relationship alive, the odds were stacked against their favor.

He didn’t need to look far, his supervisor was an illustrious example of flourishing in his career but floundering in his personal.

So when Spencer started this relationship, his shoulders would tense up from every phone call that took him away from you, as if this case would be the one to break the camel’s back. Or as if this one or the next coming would cause him to turn from being a partner for an incredible woman to being a single entity, alone, missing what he once had.

He hadn’t told you his worst dreams while away for a case. How he’d hear your melodic laughter in a hazy crowded room, familiar but no longer his, eyes tracking her beauty and smiles in the arms of another man.

Spencer would wake up drenched from sweat and heart trying to beat out of his chest to the sweet reality where you’re still his and not once well-known stranger just inches out of his orbit.

He vividly remembers the first time he merged his world with yours at an annual gathering at Rossi’s mansion where he meekly asked, in private of course, if he could bring a plus one.

The senior agent squinted his eyes in return, possibly analyzing any signs that could have pointed to this moment, before breaking into a smile, nodding, and patting his back with a warm chuckle.

But for tonight, he had felt nervous and if he was being honest with himself, afraid that this moment would finally scare you away from the chaotic fold of his life.

A fold he was on the verge of including you in for longer—for as long as you’d allow him to.

“I had fun too,” he breathed out, a soft smile settling on his face. “Even when I had to listen to Morgan detail how much of a klutz I was during the early days.”

You took his hand into yours, rhythmically squeezing as you pulled him to the messy dining table. “Well, I for one thought it was cute—” the tips of your nose scrunching adorably. “—falling into a pool and getting kissed by a celebrity, just wow Spence, not everyone has that type of first kiss.”

The tips of his ears turned a brighter shade of red, mind desperately trying to string along words for defense.

Not waiting for his feeble attempt to contradict your teasing, you flitted around the table, gathering a series of plates as you went, skipping and side-stepping as if you were dancing to your own music.

He watched as the hem of your floral skirt softly swayed, entrancing him to blindly follow your lead. A moth to an ever bright burning flame.

He hovered behind you, caging you in, and the little space in between your bodies turning into static.

Spencer placed his warm hands your waist, the soft fabric and the skin underneath giving way to his grip, thumb running circles on the sliver of exposed skin beneath your blouse.

You giggled, sending vibrations to his chest and tingles to his ears, as he placed a constellation of kisses on your cheeks, trailing down to the soft arch on your neck.

“If I could consider our first kiss as my first, I would,” he whispered against your skin.

“Your eidetic memory begs to differ, love.”

He huffed, lips quirking to a pout. “It’s the thought that counts, wouldn’t it?”

You hummed under your breath, agreeing with his sentiment.

His fingertips slowly traced its way to your own, caressing a trail that pebbled the skin underneath his feather light touch. Running your intertwined fingers under the streaming water before turning it off, Spencer gently tugged you towards the center of the kitchen.

Unobscured by any furniture, he tucked you safely under his chin, softly humming a song ever so familiar and swayed with you under the dimming orange glow of candlelights.

The silence, heady from emotion, cocooned the two lovers in its embrace. Your choice of perfume, reminding him of rain against a night pavement, wafted through his sense, lulling his heartbeat to a baseline.

Spencer had spent numerous nights, watching you in deep sleep beside him, wondering if all the roads he hadn’t taken would still lead him to this—to you.

Were you the absolute destination of his otherwise convoluted life? The crystal clear pond at the end of a sweltering desert or an angel sent down by the heavens to one of its heavily wounded soldier or perhaps the absolute answer to his own mathematical and theoretical question called purpose?

If he had made just one mistake, would he still be here, waltzing with you at early in the morning, surrounded by dirty dishes and empty wine bottles on the counter top and no soul awake to watch their phantoms dance as one?

He squeezed your waist three times reassuringly, reminiscing the highs, middles, and lows you had stuck through beside him.

His recovery from a gunshot wound, how you took time away from work just to make sure he got back to his own two feet. Mundane runs to the grocery store with a golden tint in his memory, making him feel like a little kid experiencing a taste of freedom and Emily’s death on the hands of Doyle, regardless of how untrue it was and the almost relapse from his festering emotions of being called a genius, for being too smart but still being too late to save her.

He wanted everything life would throw at him with your presence right beside him. The warmth of you, your steady hand clutching his, and your eyes sparkling from trust and belief you both would make it through.

Spencer wanted the connection with you to never be severed and for your story to continue on like an epic revisited by generations to come.

When he was young and still naive, he’d wonder if happily ever after truly existed or if was just a jaded author’s hopeful wish to create one in this bleak struggle of life.

But here, with you in his arms, the neurons in his brain all echo an affirmative, that it does exist.

And it exists right here with you.

A definite ending.

A happy ever after.

So when he closes his eyes and places a litany of kisses on you forehead, he imagines your left hand, enclosed in his, wearing two rings—one of them now still safely hidden in his sock drawer and the other, a simple gold band linking to his own imaginary, and a white picket fence with high pitched squeals and laughter echoing from its’ ever green backyard.

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

#kisreadingagain #SO CUTE!!!

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